


the desire of fire and odium of ice

by officialgeorgeglass (orphan_account)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire, Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-06-06 08:21:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6746470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/officialgeorgeglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady Clarke of House Tully was sent to ward with the Tyrells of Highgarden at the mere age of twelve, following her father's execution for high treason. Nearly a decade later, she still lives in the Reach, a perpetual guest of Lady Raven Sand, the child of Lord Tyrell's youngest daughter and Prince Sinclair Martell, third in line to the Dornish crown. The two things they share in common is a burning hatred of the Targaryen monarchs who stole their loved ones from them, and a talent for manipulation and ladder-climbing.</p><p>Meanwhile, Lord Lexa Stark faces rebellion against her hold on the North, and must hold her allies close if she wishes to see another winter. There is only so much a direwolf protector can do to hold back her enemies, especially when a greater conspiracy is brewing in the southernmost parts of Westeros.</p><p>In other words: the Song of Ice and Fire au.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. lady tully

Many years had passed since Clarke Tully last walked the halls of her family’s ancestral castle, but even so, swathed in Tyrell greens and yellows, her skin prickled with an absence of belonging. She had grown used to the way music drifted through the halls at all hours, accompanied by the tittering of birds and of cousins whose names and faces were a blur alike. The watery silence of Riverrun would have been a discomfit in comparison. That did not, however, equate Highgarden to home for Clarke. It only made home another thing stolen from her by the same people who took her father. The same  _ man _ . The air smelled of flowers and fruit as she crossed courtyards and gardens, hand nestled in the crook of one of the more constant Tyrell men’s elbow.

“That fountain has always been one of my favourites, don’t you agree, Ser Monty?” She asked, gesturing towards a once-beautiful, crumbling dragon with water trickling slowly from its half-jaw.

“It is by no means the most splendid in the gardens, my lady, I must say I am a little confused as to your fondness of it.” Came the reply, and Clarke laughed, looking to her companion with a certain gleam to her eye. Monty Tyrell had been raised by his mother’s Fossoway family, and as such, lacked the excessive chivalry and courtesy so common within Highgarden’s walls. It was what made Clarke so fond of his company.

“It has a certain kind of charm, I think. Its symbolism, perhaps.”  _ Family, duty, honor _ , thought Clarke as they passed through a colonnade and into the midday sunlight. The crumbling dragon was a constant reminder of the decay of greatness that plagued her. The dragons were dead and gone centuries past. The lords that had ridden them had grown so dependent on their power that their blood ran weak without them. Clarke Tully longed to right the wrongs done to her.

 

The charmings of a single flutist were all Clarke needed to hear to know Raven Sand was already waiting behind the screen of the gazebo in which they so often lunched. Her skin already felt like baking by the time she and Monty rounded the structure, and she bit back the comment itching at her lips as she removed her hand from his elbow and permitted him to kiss it.

“Lady Sand,” He murmured, inclining his head towards the other woman, before turning back to Clarke. “I believe Nathan is waiting on me in the yard. It would not do to keep a guardsman waiting.”

“Of course not. Give him our greetings.”

“I will be sure to. Thank you for your company, Lady Tully.” Monty smiled once more, before taking his leave.

“Take care not to tire Nathan out too much, ser, or I shan’t sleep peacefully at night!” Called the dark-haired girl to his turned back, prompting a scoff from Clarke.

“ _ Raven! _ ” She admonished, before catching her friend’s gaze and bursting into fitful laughter, before collapsing onto the cushioned seat beside her. “Oh, I do hate you sometimes.”

Raven smiled, gleaming and menacing. “No, you do not.”

“Would that I could,  _ Lady Sand _ . Would that I could.” To that, the Martell bastard positively cackled.

“Aye, I do not doubt that. Now, which first: wine, schemes or cakes?” She grinned, leaning forward as though they were conspiring.

 

“Raven,” Clarke replied, one hand darting out to snatch up a goblet from the table. She poured it full of golden wine and settled herself. “We’re both more than aware that you’ll begin with the scheming, much as I may wish for something solid in my stomach to keep me going.” She smiled despite her words, and lifted the cup until her lips brushed its rim as she spoke a single word, “Go.”

 

Raven’s fingers drummed on the table. Her gaze lay cool and collected on Clarke’s own. “I am told there is to be a tourney. And not just a small one, either. Not even in the Reach - it’s to be at Starfall.”

Clarke swallowed a sweet mouthful of wine. “The Daynes? Hosting a tourney?” Raven nodded, smile curving her lips upward. “Where are they getting the funds for that - weren’t they struggling to pay the crown tax not even a year past?” The smile on Raven’s face remained, and she shook her head.

“Lady Tully, you are too intelligent for your own good. Hold your tongue. Play the long game, just as always.”

“I wasn’t aware you kept up your machinations with me. Do we do that now? Play games around each other?” Clarke sipped at her wine again.

“Not games, no.” Raven murmured after a long moment. “And you are never a pawn in my ambitions, Clarke, I swear it.” The Tully woman nodded once.

“I can ask no more from you.” She turned her attention to the table, Raven’s  _ cyvasse _ set lying mid-game, brow furrowing in thought. “You are the jade, correct?” The dark-haired girl affirmed her suspicions. “Then tell me of this tourney. The host shall matter not.” She leaned closer to the game, her words spoken at the intricately carved pieces rather than her companion.

“As you wish. It’s said that it shall attract lords large and small, noble knights and hedge knights. Lord Dayne wishes to celebrate his daughter’s election to  _ Lady _ Commander of the Night’s Watch. She will be in attendance, as will Lord Stark and a few bannermen, the children of Northern houses, and so on.” Northmen in Dorne? Clarke thought. Northmen at a tourney? Raven’s suggestions held her tongue for her. “A few of the River lords and ladies.” Clarke turned. “Your mother declined her invitation, Clarke. Sorry.” The blonde nodded, returning to the board. “Lord Marcus does not wish to make a marriage match for you - you have not been his ward for years now, but he strongly suggests we both use this opportunity to present ourselves.” Clarke chuckled and moved her elephant piece, finally.

“The gods forbid we marry into the North, hey?”

“I’ll drink to that, my lady.” Replied Raven with a smirk, eyeing carefully over the game of cyvasse. Clarke chuckled and raised her goblet to clink against her friend’s as a server carrying their first course came into her vision. She inhaled deeply, and allowed herself to grin out into the midday sun in all its possible glory.

“Ah, brilliant, thank you.” Clarke smiled at the girl setting a plate in front of her. “I do so  _ adore _ duck.”

 

* * *

 

It took all of two days for the whisperings of Raven’s informers to become the talk of the would-be-courtiers that choked the halls of Highgarden, spreading and expanding like weeds or some brightly coloured fungus. Clarke stood back and watched as the crowds swelled with singers and mummers, lordlings and merchants, and knights both noble and of the hedges. The training yards sung with the songs of clashing steel, young men in varying states of nakedness laying bruise after bruise on one another’s bodies. In the middle of them all was Raven, however; hair pinned back, staff swinging dangerously from her fingers in place of her lethal double-bladed spear, each of the young knights who came slashing at her repelled quicker than the last. She danced on the tips of her toes and laughed with every stroke of her own that smacked into boiled leather and chainmail.

 

Clarke stood at the edge of the yard and paid her no mind, accustomed to her teasings and dazzling brilliance. There was a time when Clarke might have watched in rapture, chewing on her lip, hands gripped together so hard her knuckles went white and half-moon indents dug red and angry into her palms where her nails almost cut into the skin. Just like the excitement and heated, burning hearts of their youths together, though, that time had passed. It was no longer anything more than a tang of bittersweet coating Clarke’s teeth as she rolled honeyed words off her lips to soothe the sting of her biting tongue - though, with most of the company she was resigned now to, the bite went mostly unnoticed. Whether it was because of an abundance of arrogance or a lack of wit, she couldn’t be sure. But as yet another of the young knights kissed her hand, missing a jab at his composure entirely, poorly shaven chin scratching at her skin, she set Ser Nathan Miller, Highgarden’s Master of Arms, with a look so withering he had to turn away to hide his chortling.

 

The high summer sun baked against her skin, exposed in carefully cut Myrish lace, as she drifted out of the shadows and towards the lowborn knight, his attention devoted to a group of abandoned squires. “Come now, ser,” She smirked, hand encircling his bicep, the eyes of the crowd of boys following her curiously. “You don’t think you’re teaching them anything they don’t already know, do you?” She winked at the squires, smugness increasing as their chests puffed upwards and outwards. “In fact, I’m certain you’d stand no chance against them in a  _ real _ fight.” She grinned, quirking a brow and dropping her hand. Ser Nathan’s look was almost as poisonous as hers had been. Clarke’s laughter rang across the yard - a fact that shouldn’t have taken Clarke as long as it did to realise was strange.

As the sound died in her throat, there was silence but for whistling air and the thwack of steel on wood. Clarke turned, concern tight in her throat. As always, Raven was the spectacle - though it wasn’t her prowess on display, Clarke saw, but rather her failings. She was being pressed by a knight with a bastard sword that glinted green, her staff whirling manically to keep up with the ferocity of the blows. On her face was a snarl, barely human, her eyes glinting with anger and determination, calculating as always. Had the Tully woman not known her so well as she did, she’d have missed the way she was weighing up options, the thought behind the steel of her gaze. As it was, Clarke was prepared for something astonishing before it happened, but only just. The unknown knight’s blows slowed, just for a moment, and Raven attacked. The butt of her staff - what would have been a spearhead - jabbed forward, striking like a snake, and drove between the knight’s ribs, sending them stumbling back a step. It was then that Clarke caught on to the shape of their body, the stray lengths of hair falling from their helm:  _ another woman _ .

 

Raven was relentless, dancing forwards, spinning and jabbing all the while, blows landing in painful accuracy on the woman’s stomach, chest, elbows, wrists. She dropped her sword at a particularly savage whack to her dominant hand. She shuffled backwards, evading the press of Raven Sand for a few moments longer, until the staff whistled shrill and vicious towards her throat-

It stopped barely an inch short of the knight’s exposed skin. Raven grinned, chest heaving with every breath. The locals gathered in the circle burst into cheers and applause, whooping and chanting for the famed Tyrell woman. She grinned and bowed to the crowd, blowing exaggerated kisses and winking at those closest, Clarke herself included. The blonde broke forwards a step, nervousness she’d forgotten how to feel only just beginning to still in her stomach. Still grinning at the masses, Raven flicked her wrist, the rounded end of her training spear brushing brown locks from the she-knight’s face.

“Well met… Ser?” The noble bastard spoke down to her, the crowd again quieting as they strained to hear. Clarke watched courtesy and pride battle on the stranger’s face. The grounded woman nodded. “Well then, brave knight, what be your title?” Clarke hoped the knight would know her mockery was aimed at the world, at the courtiers encircling them, rather than her own person. Raven tilted her head as the girl remained silent.

“Ser… Ser O.” Came the brunette’s reply after a long, drawn out moment. She dragged herself into a kneeling position. “Of Bear Island.” She inclined her head, and fumbled for her sword. She offered it up, blade flat. Clarke’s shock could barely be concealed. Raven sent her the smallest of gazes. “And if you would have me, Lady Sand, I would swear you my sword.” Clarke licked her lips, before nodding almost imperceptibly.  _ Useful _ , she mouthed. Raven’s chin lifted. She returned her attention to the kneeling knight.

“I would. Rise, Ser O.” The knight did. Raven cooled her gaze, and across the yard, Clarke almost pitied the woman - the harshness of that particular look took some getting used to. “You will wash up and then join my friend and I for dinner. I will send someone for your things. Is this all agreeable?” Ser O nodded.

“I fear your servants may find that there is little to transport,” She spoke quietly, but Clarke had learned long ago the usefulness of reading lips, “My lady.” The courtesy was almost an afterthought. Raven turned to Clarke in proper.

 

“Lady Tully,” She called, and Clarke made her way over - slowly, with purpose. She knew how to play power games. “Ser Nathan,” She tossed him the spear, which he plucked deftly from the air with a nod. “Have a bath drawn,” She began as Clarke came to her side. The blonde nodded to her companion’s newest sworn sword, before turning away and slipping her arm into Raven’s, despite her sweat. “We have much to discuss. We leave on the morrow.”

“That we do,” Agreed Clarke, “And even more to speculate.” She chuckled as the sound of swordplay built back up behind them, the yard already forgotten despite its existence around her.

 

* * *

 

Raven Sand had a table set for three in the courtyard with the dragon fountain. She admired it in all its crumbling, rotting glory for the same reasons the Tully heir did: retribution. Clarke remembered the axe-heavy thud of her father’s execution, but Raven remembered the bright laughter and lips of her sister against her cheek, and the curls of her cousin’s hair bouncing as he vowed to come back and save her from her mother’s family. The dying stone dragon somehow both fuelled and cooled the fire in her heart. It was a test, of all her allies. She and Clarke took the two seats with their backs to the statue, filled their goblets with wine, and waited without anxiety.

 

The sky was bleeding orange and red when the hedge knight finally made her way into the courtyard, barely recognisable as the woman who’d given Raven so much grief only that afternoon. Her hair looked darker - still wet from bathing, and flowed free over her shoulders instead of tied in braids - and she wore a dress of deep red, cut in a southron style that she seemed born for, despite her earlier demeanor of an ice so thick and unrelenting it could only have been cut from the Wall itself.

“My ladies,” She dipped her head, and almost looked like curtseying for a moment, before resuming her stride towards the table. Clarke and Raven stood simultaneously as though sharing their thoughts and minds - as though they were two parts of a greater being. Ser O didn’t even flinch. Clarke couldn’t help being impressed.

“Ser,” She greeted in turn, before seating herself again as the knight came to the table. Clarke seated herself before folding her arms, wrapped in cloth of Tully blue, in her lap.

“I hope you find your accommodations acceptable. I’m hardly the most important of my cousins, but I was able to wrangle you a large enough room, and a soft enough bed.” Raven smiled, and Clarke hid her amusement. While Raven Sand was one of the furthest from the seat of Highgarden, or the depth of its coffers, she also happened to be one of the most important of its inhabitants, and more than potentially its most powerful. The hedge knight didn’t need to know that, though. Not yet.

“I am certain they will be more than acceptable,” The woman’s eyes flickered between Raven and Clarke, “I have spent years sleeping under the stars and on top of hay, my lady, any bed in Highgarden would be a gift from the gods themselves.” Clarke chuckled, and Raven raised a single eyebrow. The knight settled somewhere between a smile and a smirk, her gaze catching on the unspoken and unreferenced test: the statue.

 

Her smirk deepened, and Clarke shot a sidelong glance at Raven, whose chin dipped just slightly.

 

“Well, I should hope your sleeping arrangements won’t be returning to something so abysmal any time soon.” Raven replied, her voice smoother than the wine in her goblet. “Wine?” She offered the jug, before tilting her head. “Or I can send for mead, if you would prefer. Lady Tully and I are so accustomed to our own tastes, I hadn’t even thought of such.”

“Wine is fine. Red, if there is a choice.” Raven nodded and obliged her, pouring a goblet and handing it across the table.

“A woman after my own heart,” Clarke quipped. “Lady Sand here is fonder of a good Arbor gold. She has a taste for the sweet, I have come to realise.” Ser O chuckled, sipping at her drink. “I find that something with a little more…  _ body _ is preferable.”

 

“Life is too short for one to refuse indulgences, Clarke.”

 

“Life is as long as you are willing to make it, I was taught.” Interjected the knight, her gaze set intense on the fountain again. Clarke decided that she very much liked this woman. The softer than normal set to Raven’s mouth and her careful replies told Clarke that her friend felt very much the same way. A thick sort of silence washed over the trio, and Clarke refilled her goblet. “If you’ll forgive me for asking, my lady, I was wondering why Sand?” Asked Ser O, befire continuing, “You live in the Reach, where the bastards go by Flowers, if I am not wrong, and I understand that your father legitimised you, meaning you should, by all reasons, go by his name of Martell. So I ask again: why Sand?”

Raven’s lips curled in a way that was almost dangerous, almost threatening. “The bastards born to my father’s house have long since had a reputation for relentlessness and strength. My identity has been carved in their shadow. Atop that, however, I have always been the Dornishwoman in Highgarden, but the Tyrell in Sunspear.” She leaned forwards, and licked her lips. “I am Raven Sand, good ser. The Sands do not rest while there are wrongs to be righted and revenge to be had.The longer you spend in my service, or even my presence, the more you will understand.” She lingered in the knight’s space for a few moments longer, before straightening herself back into her seat. “Now, I have permitted you your question, and indulged you with an explanation. It is your turn. Who are you? And I must know, is it just Ser O, or is there something else I might call you?”

 

The knight turned from the fountain to Clarke, then to Raven in turn, the gears turning in her head. She took a deep breath before speaking. “I was born in the Westerlands, in a town near the Golden Tooth. My mother named me Ophelia, but I prefer simply O. I knew naught of lords and ladies until I reached the age of fourteen,”  _ Strike one _ , thought the Tully girl, and she didn’t need to turn to know Raven was thinking the same thing. Ser O could be no older than twenty years, now, and she spoke with perfect courtesies. She was not lowborn, or at least not lowborn  _ and _ Westerosi. “I met an old knight, I do not remember his house, and came into his service as a squire, for a time. He taught me the ways of sword and shield. His name was Bell. He died without knighting me when I was sixteen, and I was left alone at Oldtown. I got on the next ship to Essos, and took service with the Golden Company for the next two years, though I spent most of my time in Braavos, drinking away my small plunders.”

“Ah, I do love Braavos - my father took me there when I was a child.” Raven interrupted with a reminiscent smile. “I trust you ate plenty of oranges, then? And lemoncakes? Braavosi lemons are delicious, I would hate to think you had missed out.”

“Oh, of course,” Ser O assured her, nodding. “Anything I was served, I ate, from Ragman’s Lane to the Purple Harbor.” She smiled. “Three years past, I returned to Westeros. I went North, this time, however, and spent many moons in Bear Island. I came upon my knighthood last year on a particularly hot day - which, in the North, was little more than freezing, of course. Lady Mormont’s youngest son was swimming near the isle’s rocks, until he suddenly wasn’t, and disappeared below the tide. I dove in and saved him. Lady Indra knighted me on the spot, as she had seen me training in the yards. I have been travelling since.”

Clarke smiled. “I do so resent being cooped up in castles, sometimes. I have seen so little of the world, when I hear tales like yours and Lady Raven’s - I am sure you will have many a story to trade. I suppose it is only the price paid for being a traitor’s daughter, of course.” If Ser O found any of her words shocking or off putting, she didn’t show it. Whatever the lie of her birth was, Clarke doubted it would be endangering to herself, not with the way the knight had smiled at that fountain.

 

The rest of the evening passed in a whirl of courses and small talk - the chicken with talk of the impending tourney and who was likely to win (Ser Atom Gardener was among the favourites, as was Lord Stark, though many doubted the Northerners would even compete), lamb with compliments on the wine and its origins, and the cakes with discussion of the latest decidedly hideous braid style of the courts. Clarke could feel the wine loosening her tongue just a little too much as Ser O finally took her leave. The blonde stared at Raven as the door to the courtyard creaked shut, trying and failing to read her thoughts. Eventually, however, the bastard girl smiled.

 

“Do you know what my favourite thing about Braavos is, Lady Clarke?”

“No.”

“Lemons don’t grow there. I hate lemons.” She was smirking. Clarke burst into laughter, tilting her head back. As they faded into silence, she shook her head, and rose from her seat.

“You’re terrible, and wonderful. Good night, Raven. I will see you on the morrow.”

“Good-night, Clarke.”


	2. lady sand.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raven is guilty; Ophelia is questionable; Clarke is a little bit shocked.
> 
> In which they're traveling into the Dornish Marches, and a lot but not enough is revealed.

The horse between her legs swayed with every step, and along with it swayed the languid, practiced torso of Raven Sand. The main body of their travelling party was still miles behind, and though typically, she thrived in crowds, it had come to be the fourth successive day she’d developed a crippling headache from the constant barrage of sound, smell, and colour among the masses. Out ahead, however, there were none to challenge her. The earth was living, the roads barely trodden, the air fresh. There was no one but her, her horse, and their shadows. It just so happened that one such shadow was not a shadow at all, but a girl. A girl of what Raven would put at nineteen years, with the title of knight and a sword strapped to her hip that was sworn to serve her lady’s every command.

Raven smirked and turned to look at the knight who tracked her so dutifully.  _ Ophelia _ gave nothing away, simply meeting her gaze with a sort of emptiness. Irritation churned in her stomach. She dropped one hand from the reins and moved it to her spear, strapped to her saddle, just within reach. She dropped her gaze purposefully, the very action smug.

“Your destrier is handling the heat?” Raven dropped the reins from her second hand, leaning forwards to pat her own horse, a carefully bred sand steed, aside her neck. “I see you’ve abandoned the plate and mail. Dorne will bring even the strongest knight to his knees,” She grinned, “Or hers, that is, if they are not adaptable enough. I’m glad to see that you are. I don’t enjoy placing my safety in the hands of those who can’t think for themselves.”

The knight snorted. “That would be because men are either too stupid or too stubborn to follow advice. I haven’t yet met another woman-knight.” Ser O moved her sword hand to sift through the mane of her horse, gentle but testing, and nodded once. “The horse is fine. He’s seen harder rides than this.” At that, it was Raven’s turn to laugh.

“Were we not only needing to cross one or two of the Red Mountains to get to Starfall, I would be inclined to tell you not to speak too soon.” She turned her gaze towards the mountains that loomed in the near distance. “Yours is a fine steed, and there are more treacherous journeys to come.” She dug her heels into the sides of her own mount, spurring it forwards. Ser O stared at her, still halted, puzzling over her words as the Dornishwoman’s bare shoulders drifted closer towards the mountain range.

“To come?” She shouted eventually, speeding up and leaning forwards over the warhorse’s neck until she caught Raven again. “Speak simple, my lady. I have no patience for your games of tongue and mind.” At that, her new liege could do nothing but smile and shake her head. Raven Sand was the most valuable person in their travelling party, despite ruling no lands and holding only the title of lady in courtesy. Raven Sand was the only one privy to the knowledge of the greater games, the slow burning moves of the few people more powerful yet far more constrained than herself.

“You’re saying you don’t enjoy games of tongue? I suppose you mustn’t have ever experienced the best of them, then. A pity.” Raven winked, before her head tilted to the side and she smirked at her own jests, though there was no one to see it. “I thank the gods every day that I was born with the intellect and the wit I do possess. I thank them also for the curse that requires me to speak in tongues, as you so put it, because without it, my life would be unbearably mundane.” Raven turned, tossing her hair over her shoulder, and looked the knight dead in the eye. “Don’t worry yourself over my words, nor my intentions. You are my sword and my shield, as yet.” The lies rolled off of Raven’s tongue without a hitch. “You’d do well to remember that.” The silence between them stretched on and on until it might have been as long as the road that stretched for miles behind and miles in front of them.

“Apologies, my lady. Like I said, I don’t have much of a talent for words. Not like you, at least.”

“M’lady.” Raven corrected her.

“I beg your pardon?”

“ _ M’lady _ ,” She repeated, returning her grip to the reins of her horse’s saddle. Behind them, the main column of their riding party could just be seen. “If you’re going to pretend to be lowborn, ser, at least have the decency to make it a good impression.” As one, their horses trotted back into action, the sun lowering lazily over the ever cloudless Dornish skies. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe in my hands.” Raven vowed. She thought of all the things she kept hidden, and all the people she was hiding them from. Her power was costly. Just how so, she was bound to discover before the first tilt of the tourney could even be made. There was nought to be done for that, however, when vengeance overruled hurt feelings. “Secrets are powerful things.”

The hedge knight grunted in response. Silence accompanied them for a few minutes, the noise of their remaining companions echoing slowly closer.

“Power is not what you think it is, Lady Raven. Take care while you search for yours. You may find things you wish you had never even dreamed of.” Ser O’s horse drifted backwards. Raven’s head turned. “I am going to find Lady Clarke, and have her catch me up on the day’s events.”

“I will see you at supper, then, I expect?”

“Perhaps.” Ser O allowed, nodding her farewell. “Until then, my lady.”

 

Raven waited until she was out of earshot before urging her steed forwards yet again. “M’lady,” She muttered to herself, staring at the mountains.

 

* * *

 

The smell of meat cooking was rich and almost unbearable in its strength as it wafted from their few cookfires throughout tents and mingling bodies. Inside Raven’s tent, coloured the deep burned orange of a promising sunset, Clarke Tully wished she had the luxury of a bath to wash the sand and sweat from her skin. There would be one in Starfall, she knew, but she had not had one since the fourth day of their journey. It was the seventh, and they still had another two, or even three, according to Raven. Water was a sparse commodity in Dorne, Clarke knew that well, and respected it. Knowledge, however, could not stop her from wishing. She licked her lips, cracked and a little sunburnt, and looked up at the woman who had summoned her.

“If there were seats, I’d tell you to take one.” Raven began, hands lacing behind her back. It had become rare to see her without a weapon, with her hair free of its usual single braid, wearing clothing that didn’t have boiled leather over the top of it or stitched into its bodice. The fact that she carried and wore none of these worried Clarke. In her tension, her hands curled into fists.

“I’m not sure that I would find myself taking it, then.” Came the reply. Raven nodded, her expression carefully guarded. As always, she gave away nothing. She looked at the  _ cyvasse _ set she’d brought with her, still in the midst of the game from their lunch meeting, avoiding Clarke’s gaze. Worry gnawed at the blonde’s stomach.

“I suppose you won’t want wine.” Raven’s murmurs drifted over the carved jade and onyx towards Clarke. She didn’t bother answering, only watched as Raven prepared herself to play her move or say what she needed to. The fact that it wasn’t going to be a speech but rather a second move left the gaps between Clarke’s teeth tasting of underripe pomegranate; too bitter to be pleasant, too sweet to be unpleasant. The only sweetness, though, was the fact that Raven’s conviction could only mean that something would be happening, and soon. Raven picked up her dragon, bringing it into play. Clarke smirked, shaking her head as she crossed the space between them. As she had hoped, Raven was seduced by her marching elephants. Her own trebuchet knocked the dragon out of play, leaving her king and the surrounding pieces exposed, while Clarke’s were safe, guarded by her light horse and one set of crossbowmen. She stepped backwards again, mocking Raven in a curtsey. “For someone who has never studied the arts of battle, Lady Clarke, you are an impressive player at this game.”

“Only patient and careful. You have no chance of winning this game because you jumped to action too quickly, Raven. Shows of strength are all well and good, but they need a delicate touch.”

Raven smirked, as though this had been her plan all along. For a fleeting moment, Clarke wondered if it had been. She dismissed the thought with a reminder that Raven was merely a shockingly adept opportunist. A twinge of guilt echoed around Raven’s ribcage. She wondered if maybe Clarke had heard it. There was the clanking of armour outside the tent, though, Clarke’s head snapping to attention. Apparently not.

No one entered the tent, much as Raven had wished to be spared this task. She cleared her throat. “That brings me to what I had hoped to speak with you about.” She picked up her goblet of wine and drained it in one, wishing it were deeper. “I need someone with the foresight and planning such as you have, Lady Clarke. My uncle in marriage, Lord Marcus, has need of a mind like yours in the young he can trust. Can he trust you, Clarke?”

It was no more than a courtesy, though Clarke’s palms were slick with trepidation. “You have my word that I will not betray him.”

“Then I must needs start at the beginning. I beg that you do not shoot the messenger.” Raven did not look at her companion as she refilled her goblet from a skin of wine. She wondered if Ser O was listening to their conversation from her post outside. A part of her hoped the womanknight was. “The first thing you must understand, is that the treason your father was executed for was true.” She heard the blonde woman’s gasp, the slight step backwards. She did not doubt it must have felt like a hard, low blow to the stomach.

“How da-” Came the growl of her voice, but Raven lifted a hand.

“It was true; it is true. It spans the width and breadth of Westeros. The Reach, the Riverlands, Dorne, the Iron Islands, and minor Houses from the Vale.” Raven paused for breath and immediately regretted it, as Clarke began to speak again.

“Dorne has harbored nothing but ill will for the Crown and the Dragonlords since the Conquest, that means nothing. After my father, the Riverlands will be split in two; the scared and the angry. The Reach is rich, yes, and probably the most formidable of your list, Lady Raven, but there is a reason the rest of Westeros calls it the land of summer and dreams. As for the Iron Isles, they may rustle a few ships, but they cannot do much more than hassle the North, if they’re on guard - the Stormlords would break them before they even smelled grass if they threatened landing any lower. I do not need to explain why the Vale lords do not matter.”

Raven tilted her head. “If you would let me finish, I would explain. Your concerns ring true: you are right on every point. But think.  _ Why am I telling you this? Why now? _ Use your head, Tully.” She turned, ignoring the barely-there glassiness to Clarke’s eyes. She had not known Jake Tully. It was not her place to speak of him, only to his daughter. “We are not looking for marriage matches - though, those would not go amiss to solidify support. We are here to sway the North, impossible as it seems, and to make a show of our strength.” She smirked the last part. It even elicited a small smile from Clarke, who nodded. A few moments passed in silence.

 

“My father truly believed in this?” Raven hid any semblance of surprise at the open honesty and rawness in Clarke’s words. They hadn’t shared such since they were still children. She nodded once. The Tully words rattled across her mind;  _ Family, Duty, Honour _ .

“From what I have been told, he was determined more than anyone else to finish this. He wanted a better life for his family. For you.” Raven wished she didn’t have to phrase her words so carefully, so as to move Clarke. “He died knowing the cause would endure without him.” Clarke nodded.

 

It was in the following silence, filled with barely repressed emotions, that the entrance of the tent ruffled loudly, and Raven’s sworn-sword clanked into the vicinity.

“My ladies,” She bowed to them each in turn, before directing her full attention to Raven. “There’s another party not far off. It’s dark out, but the hedges are saying so is the banner they fly. Black and purple, not that it is safe to know for sure, but none can quite make out the sigil.”

Raven bristled, and watched Clarke’s thought process. “No need,” She scowled, shaking her head. Clarke’s eyes widened, before a confused form of scowl formed on her face.

“I thought you said there wouldn’t be any Stormlords.” Clarke said, her voice tense and taut. Raven would wonder later over why she seemed quite so hateful towards the houses of the Stormlands.

“There weren’t supposed to be. Apparently  _ Dondarrion _ can’t keep himself away from the taste of artificial glory.” Raven spat the name, already beginning to pace around the tent. “This… throws a wrench in things.” She stared at the ground, thinking. Clarke did the same. The knight stared on in bewilderment, at a loss for what to do.

“They stopped, for the night, to set up camp. Jasper only saw them when he went to take a-” She stopped speaking, catching herself before she could say something crass.

“A piss,” Raven finished for her, smile on her features despite her obvious distress. “Thank you, for informing us, Ser. You may go back to your post, or to eat. We’ll be here when you return, if you’d like to share a drink.” She looked to the other Lady, before returning her gaze to Ophelia. “Or I will be here, at least.”

“Thank you, my lady.” She nodded. “Lady Clarke,” She murmured, before slipping out of the tent again.

 

Clarke laced her fingers together, hands hanging afront her waist. “If Dondarrion is coming…” She began, only for Raven to stop, look at her, and shake her head.

“It is too late now for all the lords of the Storms to make it. I am more worried about who might be in his party… I would be concerned for the young lord’s intentions, but we all know what he has taken to calling himself.” Clarke snorted, nodding along to Raven’s analysis.

“I can’t say I disagree with your thought, there. We’ve all heard the tales of Finn Dondarrion. He is no doubt as flashy and insubstantial as his sigil.”

“Ah, the Lightning Lordling.” Laughed Raven, her pacing coming to a halt. Slowly, however, so did their laughter. “You must be careful, Lady Tully. Court him as you would any other eligible man. It might even be we can suade his judgement, split his house between he and his father.”

“Of course, Raven.” Clarke stepped closer to her. “Thank you, for telling me about my father.”

“Jake Tully was a good man, if Lord Marcus speaks true. And I am sure he does.”

The blonde woman nodded. “I’ll see you in the morning.” She kissed Raven’s cheek, her lips soft. It was a gratitude and a blessing she wasn’t capable of placing into words. Raven nodded at her back as she disappeared almost silently from the tent, before returning to her tin plate of now cold dinner. She ate it without qualm.

 

Raven Sand had known less pleasurable meals than that one, in her time.

 

* * *

 

 

She’d barely washed down the hardbread and mutton with a deep swig of ale when the flap of her tent rustled and clanked again. She moved to sit down on her cot, pleasantly warm from a mixture of the still cooling desert air and the few goblets of wine she’d finished by then. She reminded herself to slow down.

“Please, get rid of the armor, Ser. I can’t abide the sound at this time of knight.” She smirked over at the knight, who pulled off her greaves, mail, and mismatched pieces of plate at the request, leaving her in leggings and a tunic, covered by a shirt of leather. “Ale or wine?”

Octavia chuckled. “Ale. I can smell that it’s red from here.” Raven pointed to a second horn, next to the  _ cyvasse _ board. Either Clarke’s absence or alcohol was lowering the kight’s inhibitions, Raven noted, along with the almost subtle way she was studying the board. “Have you ever played?”

“What?” The knight’s head jerked up, a little too quickly. Raven smiled, sipping her ale again.

“ _ Cyvasse _ . Have you ever played?”

“Oh, no. What is it, like war?” Ophelia’s words lacked the laziness of drinks. It must have been Clarke’s absence, then. Raven set her drink aside, leaning forwards in her makeshift seat.

“Something like it, yes. But it is more certain than war. There are no twists or tricks of location, no hidden armies. If you know your own mind and your opponent well enough, you should never lose a game of  _ cyvasse _ .”

“Whose mind are you unaware of then, Lady Sand? Yours, or the Lady Tully’s?” Raven smirked, glad that the knight was keeping up. She did not, however, deign to reply, but rather rose slowly from where she’d seated herself. She crossed the space of the tent in three strides, placing herself just behind the knight. Her right shoulder bumped Ophelia’s left, just slightly.

“It looks dire, yes, and Clarke thinks she has one beyond a doubt.” The knight turned her head to the side, looking directly at Raven, whose own head came to face her. As always, her features were underlined by a deep smugness. “But I must ask you: have I, definitely?” She watched Ophelia’s throat bob, and the glint of her eyes as she turned back down to the board. The knight gulped down ale, the horn at her lips for longer than Raven thought even she was capable of.

“I don’t know,  _ m’lady. _ ” She spoke, her voice quiet but empty of softness. “I’ve never played the game before. I don’t imagine that you plan on telling me, either.”

Raven nodded, her smile losing some of its harshness. Reluctantly, she stepped backwards, away from the board. Her eyes caught on Ophelia’s still-braided hair, and she very nearly offered to undo it for her. Too much wine, she chided herself. 

 

“Come back tomorrow. You’ll see then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooooohhhh ahhhhh what's goin' on there???? what is everyone hiding???? why so shady????


	3. lord stark.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which lord stark and her vassals arrive at starfall just in time for catastrophe

“Alexandria Stark.”

Lord Stark was sweating. In fact, all the northerners were sweating, if you didn’t count the Reeds in their leather vests, Lord Commander Dayne in her tunic with it’s torn off sleeves, or Aden Stark and Ontari Bolton, their heavy winter coats discarded and forgotten with a simplicity only possible in such youth as they possessed.

Lord Stark was sweating beneath her grandiose winter furs, insides of her thighs threatening the possibility of riding sores, head aching from a lack of hydration and an overabundance of worrying, trudging through a land she neither loved nor hated, surrounded by vassals she trusted less and less each day. She lifted her chin and ignored the gravelly voice that chased her.

“ _Ale_ -” There was the sound of an arm being thrown out, a thud, and the growl of the same voice. Lord Stark stared forwards.

“You will use her correct titles, you piss-blooded craven.” Growled another voice, one that was deeper yet softer, more echoing. She could picture the pair of men, staring one another down, clad in too much clothing and sitting astride vastly different steeds. Nyko Umber, with his arm across the chest of Titus Karstark, muscles flexing in intimidation. Lord Karstark cleared his throat.

“Lad-” Dropping the thin leather rein from her grip, she held up her right hand.

“ _Lord Lexa Stark_.” She cut into the man’s quiet, picking up the reins once again. Karstark said nothing. There was a huff of laughter from beside him. Lord Stark held down a smile, her eyes warm with amusement, though no one ever caught them. “Bearsbane, I think it would be best if you escorted your brother someplace he was not tempted to start a brawl with a man twice his elder.” She suggested, turning her head towards Gustus Umber. The bearded man grinned, barked out a laugh and turned to Nyko.

“You hear that, brother? Your liege is calling you a child.” Lexa had to fight not to laugh then, knowing just as the Umbers both did that it was Lord Titus’ age that was the worry, not the younger Umber’s. “My lord,” The brothers both nodded to her, before turning and leading their horses away. Beside her, Lincoln Reed was a silent statue, eyes always forward, bow always half notched, a mountain of a man.

“You are a woman, Alexandria.” Said Lord Karstark, his voice dripping with disdain. The air shifted around the three as Titus came to ride beside his liege. The crannogman twisted just enough that his bow, resting on his lap, pointed towards the elder Lord. Lexa pretended not to notice.

“Aye, I am a woman. But how many northmen, do you think, will follow a Lady Stark?” She asked, never once bothering to look at the balding man, “How long will it be before the Baratheons and the Tullys and the Tyrells start complaining that I am unmarried?” Her eyes locked on the form of young Aden, still not yet a man grown, still ungroomed for leadership. He’d grow into it, perhaps, when his voice lowered. The Boltons still looked hungrily on at the seat their father had held for so long, and there was still an unstable king on the Iron Throne. It was dangerous, ruling the North. Only she was capable of it. She was born for it, born and raised and trained, despite everything.

Aden smiled, eyes soft on Ontari’s form. Lexa frowned. Ontari had been with them since she was barely out of swaddling clothes. Lexa doubted she shared her mother’s convictions. Still, in Nia Bolton’s games, anything was a danger.

“I may be a woman, Lord Karstark, but I am more capable and intelligent than any who might replace me. You must be aware of that, at least. I have seen enough of winter to know what it costs. I was born in the harshest one in centuries. I have lived through three others.” There was a sound from the man, perhaps a grumble, perhaps a scoff. “I will hear no more of this, Lord Karstark. The price of defying the Starks of Winterfell is one I do not recommend that you wish to pay.”

“My lord, I had hoped to discuss with you the folly of this tou-”

“Matters for a council long past. We are in Dorne now, my lord, weeks from the summer snows. I will not have my first decisions as Warden questioned by my subjects. Now, if you would leave us, I have matters that need discussing with Lord Lincoln, here.”

 

The Karstark did not dignify her with a reply, his chestnut palfrey trotting back into the fray of travelling men and women. Lord Stark scowled forwards.

 

“You would think his mother had not been a Mormont, with his attitude.” Lincoln Reed was soft-spoken and gentle, not at all the way he looked. The loyalty of House Reed was one of the few reliefs in Lexa’s life, and Lincoln one of the few people she enjoyed, let alone trusted. “Tread lightly. He thinks he means well, but he’d sell you to slavers if he thought it would better the realm.”

Lexa smiled. “Of that, I am more than aware, Lincoln.” Beneath their horses hooves, the sand grew more worn and shaped with every step. “Thank you.” They did not speak for a while, Lincoln resuming his scouting duties. Lexa stared at the children in front of her.

“Lex!” Shouted Aden all of a sudden, pointing towards the little greenery by the trickling stream the Dornish called their river. “Look, lemons!” He grinned at her, then at Ontari. Together, they spurred their horses off the track and towards the trees. Lincoln’s trained eyes followed their movements, fingers itching over his bowstring. Lexa smiled at her brother and her ward, wishing she still held his childhood revelry and simplicity. She’d had his love, once, too. Now, that was costly. Titus Karstark never tired of reminding her such. She blinked.

“Lord Reed, when we reach Kingsgrave, you will instruct the Umbers to gather the Manderly knights and Lady Mormont’s daughters. After dark, they will escort Aden and Ontari to the Water Gardens. I have an assurance for their safety there. Lady Commander Dayne will draw them a map.” Lexa took a deep breath, hoping this was the right decision. “We will leave most of the party at Kingsgrave. You, the Lady Commander, Lady Mormont, one of the Glovers - perhaps the lordling, I forget his name - and I will go on to Starfall. I will leave the rest under Karstark command, the gods save them.”

Lincoln nodded, his face the ghost of a smile. “I’ll make sure to tell Gustus and Nyko to keep it quiet.”

“Thank you, Lincoln.” Lexa could feel a part of her mind pulling her to the left, and turned her head accordingly. There, with Aden and Ontari among the trees, had appeared her wolf, his grey pelt darkened even further than normal by the water soaked through it. She whistled, high and clear, and his head turned. “ _Jaqiarzir,_ ” She called, her High Valyrian infallible, and the beast streaked towards her, a dark blur in the yellow of Dorne.

“Good boy,” She greeted him absent-mindedly, bending down to pat his damp fur. “Sorry for the heat.” She murmured, her shoulders lifting under the weight of her coat. “I feel it, too. Blasted South.” She sat back up, and scoffed. “Blasted southerners. Blasted tourneys.”

“Aye,” Agreed Lincoln, somewhat grimly. “Blasted tourneys indeed.”  


* * *

 

 

She’d sent Aden off with a ruffle of his hair, an over-exaggerated kiss to his forehead, and a promise to be done and with him by his fourteenth name day. Ontari had sniggered at that, her own having been two months past, and Aden had puffed out his chest angrily, and held his head what looked to be uncomfortably high. They started out their midnight journey on opposite sides of their group, but Lexa did not doubt they’d be sleeping on one another’s shoulders, still on horseback, by the time they’d truly gotten out of Kingsgrave. She slept with a knot in her stomach surprisingly smaller than it had been. For Southerners, the Dornish respected guest rite and the lives of children surprisingly well. She didn’t trust the Martells or Raven Sand, but she trusted they would not break a tradition their culture relied upon.

She woke with a sense of both anxiety and triumph. They’d be at Starfall within the day, if they rode hard. She planned to. There was little complaint as she delegated tasks to the lords being left behind and left instructions with the Manwoody’s maester to send a raven to Sunspear should she be gone any longer than a week and a half. The power left in Lord Karstark’s hands seemed enough to sate his thirst for influence, though Lincoln’s warning still resounded in the Stark woman’s mind as she packed saltbeef and hardbread into her saddlebags, along with oranges and apples fetched by her young brother the day before. The Lady Commander of the Night’s Watch was packed long before anyone else in the smaller party, perhaps because she was long practiced, perhaps because her luggage was lighter. Lexa looked up from her bags and towards the sunbaked woman, her skin darkening by the day, muscled arms bared to the heat in her self-destroyed shirt. In her scarred hands she held her deadly morningstar, a reminder of her roots, so close now to her birth-home. The spiked mace twitched a little in her grip.

“Anya,” Lexa called in greeting, and the woman smiled. “Come, help me pack this damned coat, coz.” Anya Dayne’s golden hair glittered in the sunlight as she strode easily over. Few knew the woman as well as Lexa, whose uncle had married Anya’s aunt the summer past, when Lexa and Anya were still both nought but children.

“I did tell you the South was too hot for such a folly, Lord Stark.” The Commander murmured, taking the bags from Lexa’s grip. The child of Winterfell only smiled as the worry lines in her cousin’s face shallowed, her weapon forgotten.

“I must needs keep up appearances, Anya. I cannot go to Lord Dayne and his attendees dressed in my underclothes.”

The woman barked a laugh, seeming to forget that the man in question was still her father. “Perhaps you and I should swap, then. The Watch is supposed to be even more solemn than you lot, but you Starks are as impossible as the Wall itself. Will you ever learn to shift, Lexa?”

Lexa looked up, the smile fading from her features. She became sharp as quickly as ice might melt in this heat.

“It is not that I do not wish to shift, Lady Commander. It is that it is too dangerous to sway at this moment. There are swords at all sides. I do not want an uprising on my hands.”

“Lady Bolton-”

“Lady Bolton wants to see me flayed and on display at the Dreadfort, and Aden too, or married to Ontari and powerless. I will not lose Winterfell.” There was the hint of a threat to her words, a growl in her voice to match that of her direwolf. Anya nodded, buckling the bags and standing back up.

“We ought to get going, if you hope to reach Starfall by midnight.”

Lexa thumbed the hilt of her right-hip sword, and nodded. She swung lithely into her saddle, and whistled for her wolf. Jaqiarzir came padding towards her, and the heads of the men and women in her party turned in her direction. She nodded, and as one their steeds trotted towards the road, armor and weapons clinking angrily in their packs or at their sides. It wasn’t long before the Glover lordling began whistling, and Anya was at her side, singing jovially along. She sent a sidelong look at Lady Indra Mormont, who glared back, jaw twitching. Anya’s voice was irritatingly pleasant.

 

* * *

 

 

They arrived to the sight of most parties already camped, flags and banners flying a plethora of colours across the sky and the dried yellow grass shadowed by Starfall itself, the castle bleached white and so grand it was almost impossible to see the dry cracks in its walls. Lord Stark bristled at the sight of so many sigils. She knew each and every one, but knew better than to trust in its lord or lady - or the sons they’d sent to win valor and glory, fickle things. They came to a space beside a purple and black mottled tent, a banner of forked purple lightning on a black field flying afront it. Their horses had been abandoned at the stables, but it was not long before a servant came towards them, Lexa a striking figure in the coat she’d donned only minutes before passing under the city’s gates. The night was black, lit up by stars as clear as the Stark woman had ever seen them.

“Glover,” She addressed the youngest of their group, wisps of reddish hair across his chin and lip, “You take this servant and a few men from the hedges, if they wish to work for pay, and have our tents set up. We’ll bring you back supper.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Cookfires blazed in every corner of the city, the streets alive with movement and excitement, revelry and drunkenness. It didn’t take the Northmen long to buy themselves meat and mead, the prospect of a hot and filling meal and cold ale making Lexa’s mouth water despite herself. They took the food back to their area to watch the progress. Lady Mormont sat in silence, tearing her meal into bite sized pieces with her fingers, watching, waiting. Anya, however, laughed and regaled and drank - she drank, and drank, and no one commented on why. The Glover boy - Atol, perhaps, or Ax, she was unsure - shed his coat and overshirt for favor of his tunic, lifting cloth and wood alike with the men he’d found, pulling their camp to life. His meal would not be hot, it was true, but it would be more satisfying than any other he’d had in a week at least. Lincoln was a quiet presence, always right by her side. They exchanged comments over the state of the southron lords, their games and laughter and carelessness. There was a reason knighthood was rare in the North.

They were finishing both their meals and the tent when the Lightning Lord returned, well into his own cups, with what seemed to be a camp follower in tow. Lexa fought not to roll her eyes as he hailed them.

“Do my eyes deceive me, or are these Northerners? In Dorne? At a tourney, no less?” Laughing at himself, he strolled towards them. Lexa stood, followed by her companions.

“Lord Dondarrion,” She greeted, her tone flat.

“Lady Stark?” The long-haired man inquired, holding out his hand in an almost delicate manner.

“Lord,” She corrected, lips twitching as she enclosed his hand in a rough grip and shook it once. “And these are my vassals, Lincoln of House Reed, Axell of House Glover, and Lady Indra Mormont of Bear Isle. And this-”

“Lady Commander Anya Dayne of the Night’s Watch.” Came the intentionally gruff voice of Lexa’s cousin. Lord Dondarrion nodded at them all in turn.

“So, the rumours are true, then. Lord Alexandria of House Stark is in command of the North and all its riches.” Dondarrion smirked. “It doesn’t need to be questioned that all that ice has frozen the smiles off of your faces, neither. How long until you marry and lose that seat of yours, my lord? Or will your brother simply snatch it from beneath you?” He laughed happily to himself. Lincoln itched towards his bow and her wolf whined by her side, but Lexa didn’t even need to intervene as a pair of women appeared from the shadows.

“Now now, Finn, we mustn’t go putting trust in rumors and speculation,” Smiled the one dressed in a blue dress, tight-fitting and low-cut, “Else what would we all go thinking of you?” She laughed, her voice rough, but not in a cold way. Her gaze flickered over Lord Dondarrion’s companion. “Surely not that you’re as, er, long-lasting as that lightning on your chest.” She nodded to his emblazoned finery, and Anya barked a laugh. The blue woman smiled in appreciation of her laughter, while Finn Dondarrion’s mouth opened and closed.

“Lady Tully, play nicely,” Admonished the other woman. Her own attire was a deep orange, inlaid with green decoration, but it was comprised of a half-shirt and pants, her stomach exposed. “You’ll scare our friends here off. And where’s the fun in that? The Smiling Strike here and our newcomers are sure to hold a world of possibilities, are you so sure you want to shut them down so quickly?” The women laughed in unison, sliding past Finn and towards the Northerners.

“Now, have you never heard that it is rude not to seek out your hosts, in the North?” The orange-clad woman had skin the tone of treacle tart, deeper even than Anya’s from her Dornish roots and lifestyle.

“Lady Sand,” Greeted Lexa, her voice a tone less sharp than it had been with the Man from before. “It is good to put a face to the endless letters - or rather, the ravens, if you’ll excuse the terrible jest.” Raven Sand smiled at her, and Lexa turned to her friend.

“Lady Tully.” She introduced herself, offering her hand. The Stark took it carefully, bringing it to her lips, still chapped from travel. “It is lovely to meet you, Lord Stark.”

“The same to you, my lady.” Lexa acquiesced her hand, and stood straight once more. Anya, this time, had deigned to introduce the Northern party to Lady Sand. Lexa began to introduce them to Lady Tully, but the woman’s eyes sparkled blue with amusement and conspiracy.

“I do not doubt my friend Raven here will give me a more thorough introduction before I am allowed to retire, tonight.” She said quietly, and Lexa nodded.

 

“So-” Lexa’s question was cut off by the arrival of a third woman, hair done in braids that rivaled Lexa’s own. She ran into the clearing, panting, shield bouncing against her back, sword rattling in its scabbard.

“My lady!” Shouted the woman, and there was a bewildered moment until the Stormlord and Northerners realized she was speaking to Raven Sand. “My lady, the hedges…” She bent over, hands on her knees, and wheezed. She caught her breath. “The hedges tell me that the men and women of the North have-” She broke off, her eyes drifting over Raven’s shoulder.

“I am aware, Ser O.” Lady Sand’s tone was dripping in amusement.

“Oh. _Oh_.” The breathless knight stood in silence, for a time. “My lords. My ladies.” She greeted, her voice stiffly formal. From behind her, Lexa felt Lady Mormont brushing past.

“Ser O-” Her voice came gruff and emotional, something Lexa would not have expected from the woman.

“Lady Mormont.” The womanknight seemed shocked, and she strode forwards herself. “Seven hells.”

“A word, ser?” Lady Mormont requested, striding away before Ser O could answer. She followed without question, however. A quick glance to the Tyrell-Martell bastard told Lexa she was almost thrown by that.

“So,” Lexa began again, directing her voice towards the southron women. “I was under the impression there would be none of the Stormlords in attendance here. Was I misinformed, or could Lord Finn here simply not resist?” There was a snort somewhere to Lexa’s left, and she wondered if it were Lincoln.

“I wish I could tell you I hadn’t been thrown by his appearance, but it was as much a shock to my own person as to yours. I should hope it isn’t a problem? I’d heard you northern folk are made of ice and tolerance, though I would not blame you if you were not.”

“Lady Sand’s blood boils too hot, she means to say,” Broke in the Clarke Tully. “She urges that you do not feel as she does.”

Lexa bit back a snort, and considered the woman for a long moment, the green-grey of her eyes almost hidden by the darkness of the night.

  
“You thought there’d be no men of the Stormlands?” Finn laughed a little too loud, both surprised and ale-addled. “Oh, no. There is going to be the man of the Stormlands here, if I was told true. Little Lord Wells Baratheon.” Lexa’s jaw twitched. She looked towards Tully and Sand, the first of whom looked unhealthily pale in the firelight, the second who was so calm it was impossible she’d had a clue. He tapped his nose.

 

“Here to keep the peace and the balance for his father, who’s too busy wiping the king’s own ass for him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all. so, i figured it was important to get this up before finalegate. idk what everyone's opinions and sentiments are towards the show, but all i'm hoping is that i don't lose all my motivation to write this/my other aus. stay classy, kids


	4. clarke.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> panic and planning; an uncalled for duel; yet another unannounced attendee.

Clarke wished she hadn’t eaten so much supper. At some point between the soups and mutton and cakes, her stomach had refused to accept anything further, not even sips of water. Resent in her eyes and an illness that wasn’t entirely due to gluttony hanging in her gut, she stared glumly at Raven’s horn of ale.

“This is controllable,” Came Raven’s voice through the murmur in her mind, and Clarke nearly snorted. _No_ , she thought to herself, _this is chaos_. She wasn’t sure how long had passed since the realisation that Wells was on his way had struck her. She glanced upwards, and the circles around Raven’s eyes told her it had been hours. No wonder there was such a chill about. Clarke had thought it was her own imagination. She could remember the way Wells Baratheon used to be, broad smiles and laughter like honey, the bounce of his hair, the warmth of his hands. She could remember the way his shoulders had started to broaden and become round far before any of the other boys, all the way from Storm’s End to the Trident, the way his father had called it something to be proud of, eyes crinkling at the edges.

She remembered the way he’d frowned when anyone called him strong, or broad. She remembered the resentful way he’d picked up his warhammer for the first time, and the heavy, tired way it would fall from his grip in the evenings. Every memory was sour on her tongue. _Ours is the Fury_ . They were wrong. It was hers, hers to hold and cherish and fuel in the depths of her heart. _Never betray a Tully’s family,_ she smiled at her lap, _they’ll never forget it_.

The North may remember, but the Rivers churn, and churn, and churn.

 

“ _Clarke_ ,” Raven’s voice was as tired as her eyes, but layered with conviction. “Clarke, I need you to say something. Or at least _try_ to think.”

“Sorry,” she muttered. “Tired.” Raven made a sound of indignance, and quiet settled over them. It only lasted a few moments, before Carke watched the other girl rise, and round the table they sat at opposite sides of.

“Clarke,” She began, her voice almost unbelievably soft. “I know not what is going on in your head. Whatever it is - you need only ask, and I will do all I can to fix it, I swear.”

“I know, Raven. Thank you, my lady.”

“Don’t call me that. Not when it’s just us.” Raven sighed. “Promise me that you are okay?”

“I pro-” Clarke’s own vow was interrupted but the clanking of armor and raised voices. She tensed, her throat closing around the words. In her mind’s eye she could see them again; the king’s men; her father’s face as his knees were kicked out from beneath him; Thelonious Baratheon’s smug face above him; and Wells, cowering behind his father - a ridiculous sight, one so tall as he.

 

There was a low, feral sort of growl and the sound of flapping cloth. Clarke and Raven both turned to the entrance in time to see Lexa Stark stalk in, Ser O at her heels, teeth gritted and bared.

“Sheathe it, ser.” Said Raven quietly, and the knight’s eyes blazed bitterly as she let her sword fall back into its battered scabbard.

“Tell me the meaning of this, my lady, else me and my northmen both will be leaving at dawn.” Behind Octavia, Lincoln Reed sidled into the tent. His size screamed that he shouldn’t have been the most calming presence there, and yet he was.

“Would that I could, Lord Stark. I assure you if I did kno-”

“No. If you do not know, why should we stay? This is dangerous for my men and women. I will not leave my brother to lead the North at the age of thirteen. He has seen one winter in truth, and that a mild one. I am not stupid. There were none of the dragon loyalists encouraged to come here for a reason.” Her gaze did not fail to flicker over Clarke. “I will not die for your slip ups.”

Raven opened her mouth to speak, but Clarke raised a hand to stop her. She rose slowly from her seat, limbs groaning in protest. She ignored them. “You have lost hold of your decorum, my lord. I can understand that. I lost mine, too, for a time. But do not mistake this for Lady Sand’s ignorance, nor her folly. And I beg you, do not storm into her tent at this hour and start a riot. It would not bode well for the many who are here to see such, or even to overhear rumor of such. Control is a fickle thing, but it must be retained. Now, I will tell you something,” She stepped towards the woman whose sharp jaw was set in anger. Clarke wondered what it would take to melt the harsh iciness of her eyes. “My father, famous as the stories may be, was not executed by stupidity. He was not a stupid man. He did not over, nor underthink anything. Do you know what killed him, Lexa Stark?” Clarke moved even closer. “ _Betrayal_. He trusted too many people. He trusted that others would see what he did. He thought men as honest as they seemed. But they are not. Do you know this? Perhaps not. Perhaps it is different, where you are from. I know not. But below the Twins, Lord Stark? Below the Twins, you may trust a person only so far as you can spit. Raven Sand knows this - seven hells, Raven herself half taught me this. This is not your land. Do not come demanding. Do not come assuming. You will find you do not enjoy the answers nor the treatment.”

“Family, duty, _honor_ ,” Lord Stark all but spat the last word. Her chin lifted. “I will lay it this way, then: this lack of knowing endangers my brother; it compromises my responsibility to my people; if am I right about you two, which I am presuming to be, then I need not tell you that this tourney is a farce for something black and twisted, something immoral. And you would have me ignore this? Some Tully you claim to be.”

“You knew all this before you left Winterfell, my lord, and you are here all the same.”

“Would that I had not and weren't, Lady Tully.”

“Lord Stark,” Raven’s voice slipped between them, smooth and sweet as honey, “I beg you do not allow your judgement to be clouded by anger not fear. There has been a mistake. That is certain. But it was not mine not yours. If we might think, and think together, we may just work this into something better than before. It is up to you.” Clarke moved back to her seat, but stood before it. Her goblet say forgotten on the table. Lincoln Reed closed the gap between himself and his liege in a single step. His hand clasped over her shoulder, his shaven head dropping so he could murmur into her ear. Her face was impassive.

Raven smirked as she watched. “So tell me, my lord. Will you and your beast go with your tails between your legs, or will you stay, and prove yourself worthy of your father’s sword?”

 

* * *

 

 

Lexa and Lincoln retired at daybreak while Clarke stifled a yawn into her fist. Raven stood, her very stance weary, at the entrance to her tent, the fabric of it flapping closed once more. Ser O let out a loud groan as she sunk onto a seat. Exhaustion stole from them all their decorum. The Tully girl blinked slowly. “Raven,” She said, rising from her own seat. “You did not tell me _Lord_ Stark was a woman.”

Raven grinned, and though it sounded heavy with lack of sleep, she laughed. “No, I did not. I wanted to see how you reacted. Are you offended?”

“Not I.” Clarke replied, stretching upwards, her muscles screaming and joints cracking loudly. “But you are lucky I am who I am - or, that I am quite so intelligent as I am, rather. Were I not, I fear you’d have lost the North long before Finn Dondarrion opened his mouth.” With that, and a nod to Raven’s ever present hedge knight, she slipped out of the tent and into the brightening glare of day.

The air smelled of smoke and dried mud, and the lingering, heavy scent of too many people in one place. It was enticing and offputting both at once, and Clarke waded through it like the smells were something real. The tourney grounds were coming to life once again, stands  being hammered up hastily, servant boys peeling their shirts as the sun turned to scalding yet again. Even in Highgarden, Clarke had never experienced anything quite like it. She longed for a bath and her cot, though she knew better than to think she would get either in the hours to come. It was too critical a juncture at which she stood.

“Rough night?” Came a voice from behind her, and she turned to find a smirking Finn Dondarrion. He at least, was something she could work with, unlike the icy Warden of the North. She quirked a brow, and rolled her neck purposefully.

“You could say that.” Finn’s face lit up with the realisation that she was going to play along. Clarke smiled coyly and willed herself into participation. “You, though…” Her eyes raked over him with purpose - grey tights, loose white shirt. He’d clearly woken but a few minutes earlier, his hair only just short of wild. “You look perfectly well rested. Your companion, was she not up to your standards? Or perhaps it was _you_ \- but of course, that’s preposterous.”

“Forgive me, my lady, but I must inquire: what is it that encourages so much thought about my prowess between the sheets?” Finn’s shirt billowed as he ran a hand through his hair, detangling it. It fell lazily back to framing his face as he left it again.

“Your reputation precedes you, Ser, in both the bed and in the tilts. I am merely curious, you see, as to whether it is a deserved one.” The man before her smirked, stretching up and backwards - she did not doubt that it was in an effort to draw attention to the hard ridges of his hips that were revealed as his shirt rode upwards. Even so, Clarke could appreciate beauty. More than that, she could appreciate the discipline it took, the number of hours lifting timber or sparring in the yard, to condition the body to such a state. She only allowed herself the briefest of glances, though.

When her gaze returned to Finn’s face, he was smirking. “Have you any plans for the day, my lady?”

“I thought I might visit the yard. There are many lords and knights I have not paid my respects to, yet, and even more with whom I have business.”

“If you might hold your departure a few moments, I would be happy to accompany you there.”

“Of course, my lord. I have need to ready myself, anyhow. By your leave.” He nodded, murmured a farewell, and Clarke slipped past his tent to her own. It took her perhaps half an hour to change her gown, clean her face, brush her hair, and reapply her perfume. Her stomach growled desperately as she straightened the shoulders of her dress: tight, revealing, and a deep, blood like red, the gown was a parting gift from Lord Marcus Tyrell himself. A tool and a message in one.

“Lady Clarke?” Finn’s head appeared in the entrance.

“Yes, I'm coming. Pray tell, my lord, have you eaten this morning?”

“I have not broken my fast, no.” Said Finn, and Clarke tittered at his insinuation, sauntering towards where he stood and slipping her arm through his.

“Shall we find you something a little more sustaining to have, then? The gods know you men need it, battering each other around all day. Raven eats like a wolf when she trains with spear, I know.” Finn laughed then, strolling easily between the tents. The sound of metal clashing was already beginning to form the basis of noise inside of Starfall. Clarke, surprisingly, found she didn't mind.

“Aye, we shall.” Clarke smiled - he was easier to play than the lyre she’d once begged her father to learn in a childish obsession. There was a stall selling fried sausage, bread, salted fish and egg just aside the makeshift training yard, and despite herself, Clarke found herself laughing along with Finn as they ate. He was companionable, to his credit, and had an arrogance about him that made Clarke’s job in their banter easier than she'd expected. She was tearing chunks off her bread with her fingers when her eyes drifted over Finn’s shoulder, catching on the figure of the largest man in the yard by a long stretch, Lincoln Reed. And beside him, looking despondently small and breakable by comparison, Lexa Stark.

The greatsword she’d carried into camp had been abandoned in favour of two much shorter ones - not even bastard swords, in fact. Thinner, shorter hilted, but just as long, just as deadly looking. In fact, if Clarke ignored Lincoln’s diminutive presence, she might have called Lexa the most dangerous person in the yard, even with Raven in one corner of it, and a plethora of well distinguished knights throughout besides. Her jaw, exposed as her hair was pulled aggressively back into a series of intricately tight braids, cut a sharp line that might have been delicate were it not set so carefully. Similarly, her cheekbones sat high, regal even. An odd look, for a Northerner.

“They're colder than the blocks of ice they sleep on, my lady. No use fretting over them at all.” Finn fingered over the intricate crossguard of his own blade - a Braavosi design, if he were to be believed, though Clarke was certain they'd always been thinner, more needle like.

She smiled vaguely as Lexa Stark’s eyes drifted across and landed on her. Their green was surprisingly warm, inquisitive, even. Clarke smirked, and raised an eyebrow. A film settled over the Lord’s gaze, closing her off yet again. With a sigh, the Tully woman returned her attention to Finn. “Am I ever going to see your fighting talents, then, my lord, or am I to be kept in indefinite suspense?”

Clarke was a talented persuasionist, and excelled at convincing others to follow her lead. She was a born leader - not in name nor in intimidation, perhaps, but in manner. She drifted around the outskirts of the yard, half watching the action, half curtsying and half making small talk. Her words were sweeter, more intoxicating than the golden wine she was so fond of as she moved between lords, ladies, and knights alike, the sun browning her skin, the air here even more full of human noise and scents than anywhere else. She focused her efforts on those from the Reach and the Riverlands, her familiarity and fame as Raven’s left hand making it all too easy to insinuate and convince them, to get the feebler minds to promise her their fealty without ever having to say the words explicitly.

“Lord Stark,” The voice tore across the yard, and every man and woman turned their head towards the speaker. Finn Dondarrion, hair tied back into a bun, face streaked with sweat, was grinning, a boy at each of his shoulders. “Are you going to glare at me any longer, or will you finally become a _man_ , and challenge me?” He flicked his wrist, the thin blade of his rapier whistling through the air, its intricate hilt dancing almost intoxicatingly. In comparison, the Northerner’s twin blades looked lackluster, childish, even. The grit of her teeth and rippling of the muscles in her arms as she lifted her swords though, spoke differently.

“I did not challenge you, my lord, because I do not take sport in pain, nor embarrassing others. I am sure that might be difficult for you and your Southron friends, here. I would not want to set out knowing I would bruise your ego.” At the growled response, there rose a few low whistles and nervous tittering. “Leave your lackeys, then, and face me if you will. I am the Lord of Winterfell. None fight for me.” Clarke smirked, feeling the attention of the young Piper woman and the Bracken twins drifting from her. She slipped around the crowds until she came upon Ser O. She leaned towards her and dropped her voice.

“Any wagers?” Clarke’s amusement grew at the hearty, low-throated guffaw that escaped her companion.

“I was knighted in the North, my lady. It is a rare thing there, yes, but only because it seems frivolous when life is iron, ice, and tradition. Poor Lord Dondarrion doesn’t know what he’s signed up for.” The knight’s voice was a low drawl, holding in it a deep rooted superiority and confidence that Clarke couldn’t help wondering over.

“Perhaps,” She allowed, nodding, “Though I would not count him out so fast. It will be a good fight.” Ser O’s head turned, the two braids aside her head whipping through the air.

“You never say anything in stone, do you, Tully?”

“I can say for certain, Ser, that I do not.”

“A talent and a trouble.” Raven spun the shaft of her spear in a circle as she swaggered over to them. “One I can be blamed for, I suppose, but all the same.” She chuckled, stabbing the thinner end of her weapon into the dirt. “Ready to watch these two fight for your favour, Clarke?”

“As if a single victory would be enough.” With that, the sound of clashing metal drew their gazes as once back to the yard, where Finn’s blade was flying, his shield steady, Lexa’s left sword coming up to parry the strike. Already, their feet shuffled back and forth, their weights constantly moving. It was clear from the outset that Lexa would have the advantage of speed, clad only in a boiled leather vest and her tights compared to Finn’s thicker garb, his shirt of mail, greaves, and the irritation of the oaken wall strapped to his left arm. He could, however, afford to be a little bolder with his jabs and thrusts thanks to the extra protection. And so it went on for a time: the lightning lord making wild and daring attempts to slash into the Northwoman, her swatting away each stroke with varying levels of ease. The longer the minutes that passed, the heavier their breaths became while the onlookers held theirs. It was a dance of death they performed, their steel singing danger with every swoosh, whistle, and clang.

 

The sky was bleeding reds by the time there was a change in the momentum. Clarke’s feet had long since begun to ache and yet, like all, she was enthralled by every blow the pair exchanged. And yet, it seemed as though Lexa Stark wasn’t looking to press: she waited, calm, unmoving. Clarke couldn’t help feeling she might have been born of the Wall itself. Then somehow, out of nowhere, Finn Dondarrion was bested. Lexa’s right sword slid down the length of his blade while her left drew his shield away, and with a flick of the wrist, the ornate rapier was flung from his slippery grip. Lord Stark grinned, her teeth sharp and deadly white, waiting for his yield.

It never came. Instead, he barreled through his shield, his weight colliding with her ribs. Lexa Stark flew down with a resounding thud, as the spectators stared on in awe. Finn fetched a sword from where it had dropped from her grip, and twirled it in her face. “Admit defeat, Stark.” He smirked. “Face it: the South simply does it better.” His gaze flickered towards Clarke and Raven, and he dared a wink. It was that which cost him his dignity, Lexa’s leg swinging around his ankle, and swooping him off balance. In one fluid moment, she flung herself to her feet and drew a knife from her belt. From behind him, she kicked out his knees and tore his hair from its ties, her fist closing around the sweat slicked strands, jerking his head upwards. With her other hand, she held the knife hard to the underside of his chin.

Her gaze went first to Raven, cast in shadows by the still darkening sky, then to something behind her. Clarke watched them widen. With dread in her stomach, she followed them until her gaze alit upon a yellow banner, unmistakeable black stag decorating its center. She moved towards Lexa Stark without even realising it. The years had stolen the young man’s soft cheeks and cheerful eyes, his shoulders even rounder than ever before, his jaw squarer. He’d become exactly the man Thelonius had longed for, yet the remorse in his eyes as they tracked Clarke would have been unmissable if any had been looking for it.

“Lord Stark, let him go and come with me.” She muttered just as the booming, powerful voice of Wells Baratheon filled the yard.

“In the name of King Aeryx, First of His Name, Lord of the Andals and the Seven Kingdoms, I command you to let this man go.” A shiver ran through the crowd. Raven Sand scowled at the ground, her eyes only catching Lexa’s for long enough to tell her to listen to him. Lord Stark’s fist tightened in his hair. Her direwolf whined, tugging against the grip of Anya Dayne. “Did you hear me, my lady? _Let him go._ ” Lexa tensed. From behind Wells rode another lordling, slightly older, his shirt crimson and black, a dragon emblazoned on his chest. Clarke’s stomach churned.

“Lord Stark,” She growled, blue eyes blazing into green. Wells’ companion lifted a hand, adjusting the circlet of gold on his brow.

“Do as Lord Baratheon commands.” The Crown Prince demanded, and Lexa’s grip went slack in Finn’s hair,her knife sliding back into its sheath. The Targaryen smirked. “Good dog.” His gaze was on Jaqiarzir, padding towards the scene. Lexa laid a hand on the beast’s head.

“My lord, come with me, now. They will not follow. Raven will collect your things.” Clarke glanced over her shoulder to the bastard woman, who was strangely alone. Further away, there was a ripple in the crowd as a head of half-braided hair disappeared into it. The Tully woman swept past Lexa, knowing she and her wolf would follow closely without question.

Behind them, the royal party swung from their steeds, the prince smirking all the while. Raven swept forwards, regaining herself, straining for a smile in their presence. “Lord Baratheon,” She curtsied. “I had heard of your coming, and I do admit I was surprised that you would make such an effort for a small tourney as this. Though, nowhere near so much as I am now,” She turned to the prince. “Your Grace, welcome. I should be happy to direct you to Lord Dayne himself, or perhaps his daughter, Lady Commander Anya of the Night’s Watch. They will be more than hospitable, I am sure you will find.”

The prince swept forwards with an arrogant smile, taking her hand and pressing his lips to her knuckles. “Please, Lady Sand, I have heard all your reputation. You might call me Bellamy, if you so pleased.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do i know how to end a chapter on anything but a character reveal? apparently not, and yet!!!! sorry this one took so long (also, sorry it's long as all hell, i was blocked for a time, then suddenly pulled way more story out of my ass than i'd meant to for this one.) as always, let me know what you think!


	5. clarke (ii)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> clarke is a little vulgar; lexa is a little numb.
> 
> in which lady tully and lord stark lick their wounds and dredge up the past.

 “Shit.” There was a loud clanking from behind her, and Clarke turned. The stern eyes of Lexa Stark were cold on her skin. She was tempted to swear again, the disdain in the woman's gaze was so strong. The one sword she’d brought lay discarded on the ground. Her skin was slick with sweat, her hair escaping its braids. “No thanks for rescue?” The Stark’s chin lifted, her eyes cold. “Right. Born from the Wall itself.” Clarke rolled her eyes, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. She snatched a wineskin from the nearest table and took a long sip, hoping her hands weren’t shaking too visibly.

They sat for a long while in silence, Lord Stark brooding, Clarke thinking of ways to keep herself from thinking. She swigged her wine again and looked over to the Northerner in the corner. She was already being watched. Clarke forced a smirk, raising one single eyebrow. The other woman didn’t take the bait, only glared. “No one is that stoic. Are there some strange magics, up where you come from? Are you born of something older than we?” Clarke stepped forwards, towards her.

“We are descended from the First Men.”

“So the legends say.”

“So my line of ancestry says. Bran the Builder founded my line-”

“ _ So the legends say _ .” Clarke returned, unable to shake whatever destructive force had overtaken her.

Lord Stark returned to glaring.

“Really?” Clarke rolled her eyes, looking towards the entrance of her tent and praying to whatever gods there were for  _ something _ . The Stark’s next breath scoffed just enough on the way out to draw Clarke back in, though, until she breathed in again and her torso stretched upwards, revealing a line of her hip, covered in a mixture of dried browns and still-wet reds. “Shit.” She whispered, eyes narrowing. Lexa met her gaze with emptiness. “You’re hurt?”

“Dondarrion scratched me, aye.” There was no hint of pain in her voice.

“Seven bloody hells, Stark.” Clarke spun on her heel, stalking to the entrance and sticking her head out. The squire guarding it jumped. She thrust her wine skin at him. “Boil this,” She commanded. “Quickly.”

“I do not need your healing, Lady Clarke. I have endured worse.”

“Shut up. I will not have my one chance of survival and of justice dying of some  _ poxy _ stab from Finn Dondarrion, nor of an even  _ poxier _ infection.” Lexa appeared taken aback. Clarke faked a smile. “Now sit down, Stark, and take that stinking armor off.” She turned and marched towards her saddlebags, feeling Lexa Stark’s bewildered stare on her shoulders the entire time.

The squire had returned with a kettle of boiled wine, a deeper red than blood, more purple than crimson in truth, steam curling into the night as Clarke pressed Lexa towards the cot, forcing her onto her back. The leather vest lay discarded on the floor. Clarke retrieved another skin of wine and thrust it into Lexa’s hands. “Drink up,” She muttered, dipping a clean piece of cloth into her long cold bowl of wash water. “This is going to hurt.”

The sounds of Lexa choking back grunts and hisses of pain hung heavy in the air as the thick sweet smell of the wine mingled with the steel-rust saltiness of Lexa’s blood. Clarke’s hands barely shook as she poured the steaming wine over the gash, but she stared at the Northerner’s fists until her knuckles flooded back from bone white to pink before she moved her needle towards the split skin. “More wine.” She ordered, and Lexa drank.

 

“How do you know all this? This healing, I mean.” Lexa’s voice cracked slightly, but gave no other hint of strain or pain. Clarke swallowed astonishment.

“I spent some months at the Citadel with Raven. She in the… Darker arts of medicine, I in the ones she needed while we were on the road.”

“Magic?”

Clarke laughed. “No. Poison, blood, the art of killing… Torture, possibly. I never asked.”

Lexa peered up at her. Clarke forced the needle through her skin and stared at her work. She was halfway done with the sutures when Lexa spoke again.

“You care deeply for her.” Clarke gnawed her lower lip.

“Aye.” She halted briefly. “She is the only family I had, after I was sent from Riverrun. I’d never had a sister before, or any cousin. Only-”

Lexa waited for a conclusion that never came. The blonde could hear her frown. “Only?”

Clarke finished stitching her hip back together and reached for the wine again. Lexa hissed as she poured it over her skin. She cleaned the sutures with water in silence, before binding more cloth around her hips.

“ _ Only? _ ”

Clarke stood and clasped her hands behind her back to keep them from shaking. “Go to sleep, Lord Stark. Your body needs rest more than your mind needs answers. I will tell you in the morn.”

“How am I to believe you? I do not know you, Lady Tully.”

“Yet you trusted me to heal your wounds.” Clarke smirked. “I swear it by my family name. Sleep, my lord. Dream well.”

 

* * *

 

The morning brought an ache from the crook Clarke’s neck right to the front of her skull and the smell of bacon in the air. The entrance to her tent was open and the light of day glared angrily at her. She shifted in her seat, stomach lurching in protest, before letting out a loud groan. Her eyes flickered to her cot, empty of its previous occupant. In her mind’s eye played a scene of Lexa Stark sneaking from her tent at first light, her hip restricting the woman to a limp.

“Great.” She muttered. “There goes my reputable name. And her bloody  _ honor _ . The rumors will be gossip in minutes and holy  _ bloody _ truths come luncheon.” There came a cough from the entrance, and the smell of bacon grew stronger.

“Good morrow, my lady.” The accent wasn’t Northern.

“ _ Fuck _ .” Muttered Clarke, and she was irked to receive laughter in return. “How much-”

“It matters not. Your head is hurting - your back, too, if that chair is as comfortable as it looks, and you have nought but too much wine in your belly. I will ignore all you said to yourself,” Raven bit into her bread and chewed loudly. Clarke scowled. “But I will warn you that Lord Stark is currently retrieving food for you both, and you look like Death himself come alive. You might be our best chance of leaving this castle with our lives and our war still in hand. Clean yourself up. I will meet you later. The Prince awaits.” Raven went to sweep again from the tent, but her head reappeared just as Clarke stripped her garb. “Go with the red, if I might suggest. It flatters you.” 

 

The smell of food remained to torture Clarke as she cleaned and dressed herself in the red dress she knew Raven had intended. The neckline plunged deep enough Clarke was certain it touched her bellybutton. She was dragging a comb through her hair when the sound of someone clearing their throat reached her. “Enter,” She allowed. “And close the flap behind you, I beg.” Were she not acutely aware of who her visitor was, she might have mistaken the huff of breath that followed for amusement.

“Good morrow, my lady.” Clarke turned to find Lexa balancing two bowls on her forearms, clay mugs clutched in her hands. Her lips were pursed, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“There are plenty of servants who would have helped you.” She muttered, swooping forwards and relieving the woman of her share of the meal. She gestured Lord Stark towards a seat. The mug and bowl burned her hands, but she welcomed the distraction from the ringing in her head.

“I do not doubt that, but something so simple as eating in a hall that is not my own should not be delegated. You would be surprised, Lady Clarke, by just how different our worlds are.” Clarke sipped at her drink, relieved by the taste of hot tea, and considered the woman’s words.

“That does not mean they have to be. There are more similarities than you let yourself see, my lord.” Their eyes met in silence, and Clarke was reminded of the night before, where they’d been capable of no more than disgruntled stares of contempt. Lexa tilted her head, never breaking her stare.

“Your food will go cold. Eat.”

Clarke swallowed a spoonful of the grains, allowing it to settle in the storm of her gut. Her eyes drifted down the woman’s torso, stopping at her hip. “How are you… I mean, how’s your hip?”

“Hurts.” Shrugged Lexa, no sign of distress in her features. Clarke had expected nothing else, and continued into her breakfast, near everything in her mind forgotten in the need for something solid among the wine. Neither woman spoke again until Clarke had set her bowl aside and cradled her mug in her hands once again.

“You were telling me something, last night. About your family, or whoever was close enough to such that it mattered not.” Clarke sighed, and searched for Lexa’s eyes as the woman spoke. They were greener than grey today, she noticed.

 

“Have you ever been betrayed, Lord Stark? Not politically, no. Not by something so forgivable as that. Your heart, I mean. Those who you would never dream of doing such a thing. There are better liars than Raven in this world. People even greater snakes than she, even more despicable, more poisonous.” Lexa shook her head, though her eyes spoke of understanding. “I grew up an only child. No brothers, no sisters, not even wards nor cousins. I told you this. I loved my parents deeply, with all my heart. Even after all these years, I still do love my mother so. Family is everything to a Tully, you are aware of that.  
“My mother and Thelonious Baratheon were good friends as children. She was born a Connington of Griffin’s Roost, her father a warrior with his. So when Aeryx called him as Hand, it was natural that his son should come into her care.” Clarke looked downwards. Her throat was thick, her words choked. Lexa was not pitying, a fact she was glad for. “Wells was my closest friend. He was brilliant, and nothing like his father wanted him to be. He was a peaceful boy, preoccupied with diplomacy and finances and the happiness of his father’s subjects. He cared not for the yard nor for military learnings. He was but thirteen and already keener at holding the Stormlands together than his father had ever been. He loved me dearly, I think. He was the brother I had never been allowed until my childhood was near an end.  
“Of course, his father was disappointed. He started being forced to train with the older boys too young. He became harder, stronger. He was bruised more oft than not, especially in the face. It was Thelonious’ doing. Then, two weeks before my twelfth nameday, we overheard my father talking about the death of the Dragon. When they came a week later, the King’s men, I remember I looked to Wells. And he had this look, like he didn’t know what to do. Like he was guilty, like I would never forgive him. And I knew, then, that he had killed my father. He tore my family to shreds. I do not speak of him, not any longer.”

Lexa nodded. “That is why he did not follow?” Clarke confirmed her suspicion. “An oddly courteous gesture.”

“Honestly, I think you and Raven may have blindsided him.”

Clarke collected her guest’s dishes and left the tent for a moment to hand them to her guard.

 

When she returned, Lord Stark was standing, hands clasped behind her back. “I have never been betrayed like that, no.” She began, her eyes carefully empty. She cut a figure, elegant and terrifying, into the room. A castle wall, perhaps, or a bow notched and drawn. She certainly looked as tense as the latter. “But I have known loss, and the pain of a heartbreak. It is a weakness that cannot be afforded at a time like this.” Clarke stepped towards the woman.

“These bonds are not a weakness, Lord Stark. You might perceive them so, I see how easy that is. But any weakness can be made strong. Any chink in your armor might become a weapon, if you are intelligent enough.”

“You will not like what I have to say, my lady."

“My name is Clarke. And I beseech you, do not presume such of me. I may not wield a sword, and I may not lead a House as yet. But I am powerful in ways you know not. These things, if you are agreeable, you will learn about me in time, if you choose not to accept them now.”

“You are the greatest weapon we have against the problem you have just described to me. It is not noble of me to use you so, but I am intelligent enough not to make a noble mistake.”

“Fuck nobility. I have stewed a long time. I can comport myself in proper towards Wells Baratheon until he cannot do the same.” Lexa nodded, her jaw working. Clarke stepped even closer, testing. “Can I count you among our banners then, my lord?”

Lexa’s chin was carefully high. “If I am to call you Clarke, my lady, then you are to call me Lexa.”

“Will you ally with Lady Sand,  _ Lexa? _ ” Clarke challenged, her reply quicker than ever. Lexa half-stumbled a step backwards.

“I must discuss my terms with her herself. I have close to a kingdom I must needs think of before I think of justice, my- Clarke.”

“I will fetch her here, then.” Clarke smiled, victory sweet on her lips, curtsied, and swept from the tent. She only made it a few steps before she turned back. “Oh, and Lexa? I am sorry that you were put out of the lists on account of my person. Finn does not have the smoothest of temperaments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayyyyyoooo its been longer than i'd planned but school hates me apparently. i hadn't wanted to do two clarke chapters in a row, but circumstances dictate, and this series of events kinda needed to happen. anyways, as always, gotta love feedback and support!!!


	6. raven.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> raven stews, bellamy laughs, wells sulks.

The royal tent smelt of spice, of cloves and cinnamon. Rich, decadent, expensive. It was entirely to Raven Sand’s pleasure, and she languished just slightly in the comfort of too many pillows at her back. The wine was warm in her mouth and her belly, never cloyingly sweet. It too was expensive; it too was red. The Targaryens, even their youngest hatchling, even so far removed from the legends of old, were never subtle. Red was everywhere, red and the dragonglass black hanging in the background. The tent’s fabric, Bellamy Targaryen’s armor, shield, steed, the shirt he wore now. It was impossible to forget who he was, no matter how much he acted the opposite. Compensation, mayhaps, thought Raven. A joke for later, a different audience. It would garner laughter and affection. She ought to try it on Anya Dayne. 

It smelled of man, too, the tent. It was an odd mix of sweat and cleanliness, of unpleasant and pleasant - she had missed it, at least in part. Raven had once been more used to the smell of man than of woman. Her younger years had been ruled by inferiority to the boys of both her families. She grew a thirst for competition, a thirst for winning. It did not take her long to rise to the top in Dorne, disappointingly. Her greatest competition there, her cousins Athen and Vaeron, were too often travelling, whoring and fighting up and down Westeros, highborn bastards unfit for marriage alliances and unfit for common life. She relocated to Highgarden, and found herself a new horde of men to scramble to the top of. They had been her only company, none of them friends, most of them cousins, all of them resentful. She did not care, and let her own sweat mingle into the smell of theirs.

That was not the case any longer. Clarke Tully had seen to that, had filled her life with sweet oils and perfumes, the smell of Highgarden’s castle and all its roses, the smell of sugared words, tooth-bared safety, and courtesies. It became a new sort of competition, a new life where they were both half-shunned and wholly needed, where they were each other’s equal in all things non-physical. She wondered if mayhaps Clarke was not competing with her, but rather was the competition itself. Raven thought of her sister’s tiny fists, the pink of her fat little cheeks as she stumble-ran through the Water Garden’s of Dorne.  _ Mariah _ , her heart at once ached, burned, and froze. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken.  _ You are not forgotten. I am sorry _ .  
She popped a pomegranate seed into her mouth and smiled over at her hosts who were also her guests who were too her enemies.

“What brings you so far from the Red Keep, if I may ask? This is hardly a tournament worthy of royal attention. I am surprised so many even made the trip - I thought it would only be Dornish revelry, perhaps a few from the Reach.” She tilted her head. “I am not certain whether I am disappointed or excited by the turn of events. All the parts of Westeros in one tiny castle - I am sure Lord Dayne is pissing in his breeches.” She chuckled. “Forgive the vulgarity.”

Dressed in yellow silk, stitched with black too intricate for Raven to make out from across the grass, Wells Baratheon was nowhere near the general he had played the night before. He could have been a scholar, or even a young Septon for the tranquility on his face. Smoke danced upwards, shrouding him, the flames below it lighting the grey morning. “There are no Lannisters. None from the West at all.” His voice was without gravel, cautious but not accusatory. He was observant, but could not take these observations further. For a man taught to play the paranoid right hand, he was awfully trusting of the Lords of the Realm.

“Are you not fond of our golden friends, Lady Sand?” The Targaryen’s teeth gleamed white, almost sharp. He was not as good a player as Raven had hoped for: he was too blatant, too accusatory. What was it that the singers always said? The Targaryens danced with madness, and paranoia? Mayhaps it wasn’t his blood, however. It was just as much a curse of being born a prince as it was being born to a slowly maddening Targaryen king.

“They aren’t so fond of the South, I think you will find, Your Grace. Their invitation was  _ politely _ declined.” At that, Bellamy guffawed, and even his right hand man cracked a tiny smile. “So, I will ask again: why bother coming to this? I’d heard you hadn’t left the city in near ten years.” Everyone who knew anything knew that the crown prince had not been permitted to leave King’s Landing.

“Bellamy-”

The young man waved a hand towards his friend. “It is fine, Wells. No, I haven’t left. I do love the city, that is true, but I have longed to see more of Westeros. I am fast approaching my twenty-ninth name day, Lady Sand. It is not healthy for a man to spend his greatest years trapped so. My father, the Gods bless him, worries too much.” Bellamy Targaryen seemed to pity his father more than the rest of the kingdoms loathed him. It was an odd thought, Raven came to realize, that behind the legends of cruel insanity lay a decaying man. He was no more than human. Or he was a monster. It mattered not, for the way the Prince had spoken reminded Raven of a truth she’d long forgotten: Aeryx was nought but a man, he had a body, he had a mind. Both would betray him someday. Raven dreamed of bringing that day about. It was amusing, how men believed the world of their fathers. “Since my sister disappeared, he has kept me as close as possible. How am I to live if I never see this world? I thought it was time to win myself some valour in a real tourney.”

“Strength and courage are not truly won in tilts, Your Grace. Our Northern friends will growl this at you until you accept it, King’s blood or no.” Raven’s features drew into something dangerous. “Such as it may be frost that turns them so bitter and cynical, they are not wrong. Charging a horse with a flimsy lance at a man doing the exact same is not brave. And chivalry?” Raven rolled her eyes. “I would claim it to be dead, but I do not think it ever truly lived. Perhaps it is the Dornish in me, but I do not believe in such a thing. Of course, certain courtesies must be followed, that I do not doubt, but I have never known a man to be  _ chivalrous _ . There is nothing without agenda in this world.” She popped more pomegranate into her mouth, enjoying the crunch as she bit downwards.

Wells broke in again. “I am sure you do not wish your future king to never have experienced your lands, my lady.”

Raven quirked a brow. “Forgive me for saying so, Lord Baratheon, but neither you nor our prince will ever experience Dorne as a Dornish. My blood sings with its life, as yours cannot.” She turned back to the prince. “My condolences for the loss of your sister. It was many years ago now, but I know the way the death of one’s blood never dulls, even if it were only one parent you shared. I have too lost a sibling, and cousins at that. I know that it is what keeps you up at night, a black spot in your eye that will never go away. It is the same on your heart and your soul, one that will never fill again. I hurt as you do, my prince. Perhaps more, if you will excuse my saying so.” She rose, rubbing her fingertips together, the juice of the pomegranate rather like blood staining them. The fruit itself was halfway to being crushed. “I must go find Lady Clarke - Tully.” 

The prince made a noise of amusement and nodded. His derision towards the events of the night before told her all she needed to know about the content of the Targaryen’s mind and heart. It might have angered her, his disregard, if it were not so useful at the same time. Beside him, Wells Baratheon only looked piteous. “She ran off in a hurry, with Lord Stark. I do think she may have been hurt in her fight. Dondarrion is a prickly fellow.” She paused for a moment in her speech, laughing to herself. “I do think you’d enjoy his anecdotes, Your Grace. His sword of  _ steel _ is hardly the famous one.” She’d expected indignance to roll from the form of Wells Baratheon, but she was shocked by a warm, deep laughter. It matched the almost gold tones of his dress. Raven Sand was surprised by the way amusement befitted the man. She’d misjudged him, and misjudgements were uncommon for a woman such as she. It was disconcerting.

“Dondarrion, you say?” He laughed. “I trust your judgement. You seem to have a sharp understanding of people, my lady. That is a precious skill, one I sorely lack in my company in King’s Landing.” He wove a hand. “Go, find your friend, Lady Raven.” Bellamy Targaryen was speaking, but Raven still watched the other man. His head dropped until he was staring at his feet. His hands twitched in the absence of his hammer, white-knuckled on the seat beneath him.  _ Interesting _ , thought Raven. She took her leave, body rising and slinking from the tent with a dexterity even water could not hope to accomplish. The camp outside was a new world, then, though it was no different to what it had been a day before with the Storm and Crown tents behind her. It was the hidden daggers she could sense, the whispers and the furtive glances. Spies, cloaks, assassins. They could have been everywhere.

Were she not so far from her emotions and her doubts, Raven’s teeth might have chattered in fear.

 

* * *

 

 

She heard sand-muffled footsteps and felt the man draw level with her before bothering to turn to him.

“You continue to behave as I do not expect you to, Wells Baratheon.” Raven said. Starfall was alive around them, the castle ringing with the songs of kingdoms she had never visited and the accents of peoples she’d only ever read about. “It is inconvenient.” Wells Baratheon blinked at her, lines developing on his forehead. She had always loved to confuse.

“My lady, I am not quite sure I understand.”

Raven Sand cackled, and the man’s befuddlement furthered. She smiled kindly as she spoke, clasping his arm. “Good, you’re playing along. Now, what is it that you wanted?”

“It’s about Clar- Lady Tully.” If she could hear more clearly, she might have noticed the tremor in his voice, odd and ill-fitted on a man his age and stature, a result of the lengths of time in the company of only his best friend and liege. 

“I wasn’t aware you two were known to one another.” Raven’s words were testing, hiding under falsified confusion, her steps slowing a little. She swerved away from where her tent was pitched, towards the other Dornish camps. She knew it would be difficult to wrench the Stag from his prince again soon, the extra steps vital for the quenching of her curiosity. She smelled the same blend of spice again. Raven decided she very much liked its warmth, regardless of how hot it might have been under the relentless sun, regardless of the sigil sewn onto the man who exuded it.

“It was a lifetime ago. For her, more, mayhaps. She has been through… Much. We were children.” Wells spoke thickly, his words lost and never found, before touching her elbow and stopping in his tracks. His hand dropped and rested on the head of his hammer. “I have a message for her.”

“And what makes you think I will pass it on?” She tilted her head.

“Lady Sand, you are an intelligent woman.” Wells began. He sounded irritated by her thoroughness, tired of her inquisitions. “And if it is not that intelligence which tells you this is a message that she needs to hear, then I know too that you play power games. There is power in it, too. There is always power in things kept so hidden.” He was bitter, she noticed. Raven indicated for him to go on. “Tell her… Tell her there is much she does not know, and that I am sorry. I never meant for her to hurt as she has. Tell her the rest I must say to her directly, if she will hear me.” When Raven opened her mouth, he held up a tired hand. “I know that she will not, my lady, you do not need to tell me that. But some things must be said, and others must be heard. I need to know that I have done all that I can within what is comfortable for her.”

“You care for her.” It was not a question. Raven’s mind was preoccupied - where there were apologies, there were wrongdoings, and there lay secrets, too. Clarke Tully was not the woman Raven had come to know. “I do too, my lord, deeply, and now. Your care has run dry into a memory: Clarke Tully is not the child who was sentenced to my family’s lands. You must know this. Mayhaps you have come to me to be assured that this is the truth. That is not my business, of course, but cruel words must be spoken when they interrupt a waking dream. Certain wounds are uglier than the rest, Lord Baratheon.” Wells’ head dipped. “Best of luck in the tilts tomorrow, my lord. You ought to watch our Prince carefully. If I am to be blamed for his injury, I will place that blame on your head, and exact the justice myself.” 

“Good morrow, my lord. I have a tourney to prepare.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a shorter one in terms of pages, but the paragraphs are far denser. sorry it's taken so long, but i hope you enjoyed!!!! leave a bit of feedback if you want
> 
> and if you're wondering when things are /actually/ going to start happening? SOON. very, very soon.


	7. the mystery knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackblood, she had entered the lists as, for the fading paint on the slab of oak; Blackblood she became.
> 
> the tourney chapter, in which there's a little bit of sucking up and a lot of freaky deaky prophecy and even more bitterness. in other words, the She did That™ chapter

She woke among the hedges, stones digging into her back and a chill into her bones. Around her were scattered men of no names and lost names, of bastard names and of imagined names. They had varying levels of comfort, same as the tones of their skin and the shades of their hair, too varied. Some had tents, pathetic versions of the grandeur of the lords and ladies not far off; some had blankets; some had nothing. The hedge knight herself had a large cloak propped up on two sticks, two blankets, her shield, and the bundle in which her armor was stowed. Her gaze caught on the copper and burgundy cloth of her mistress, wedged between Dondarrion purple and Tully blue. Despire the aching resentment of her muscles, at heart she was glad for the distance and the anonymity sleeping with the commoners gave her - more so now than ever. She stood and stretched. She stared at her shield; her shield considered her in turn.  _ Oak and iron guard me well, or else I'm dead and doomed to hell _ , she remembered. 

Blackblood, she had entered the lists as, for the fading paint on the slab of oak; Blackblood she became. The thought brought a smile to her lips. It was fitting. Blood, her father had always counselled, was the only thing that mattered. Blood was who they were, who they would always be. Blood burned hot in their veins. For all he had done, the old bastard had never been wrong about blood. But he couldn’t know just how much that lesson had soured within her heart. He should have known, of course. The black half always reared its head.  _ Blackblood _ . She reached into her pack and removed a hunk of salt beef. No matter how unsavoury the food was, how long she would need to chew for in order to stomach it, she needed her strength. It was an important day, made all the more riveting and all the more dangerous by the events of the night before. Oranges and yellows were only then beginning to bleed over the horizon; the seething mass of bodies had torn itself from slumber uncharacteristically early. Her pack slung lazily over one shoulder, the chipped shield over the other, the hedge knight in her roughspun melted into the outskirts.

The morning passed her by exactly as she’d expected: laughter she recognised echoing its way into the tilts from the dais at the center, occupied by the glittering, metal and gem adorned Prince; his fully-armored mountain of a shadow, the young Baratheon; Lord Dayne, sweating dark circles into his silken silver finery; beneath them the Ladies Sand and Tully, cool and careless in the shade; beside them sat Lord Dayne’s daughter, the Lord Commander; Lord Stark rigid and attentive at her shoulder. There were other faces, ones the hedge knight might have known in a past life but that she didn’t recognise now. She wondered whether even without her visor there would be any spark of recognition behind their eyes. Impossible, she figured, swinging out of her saddle and glancing at the young man--no, boy--she’d knocked from his horse only a few moments earlier. The smallfolk in the stands cheered curiously for her. There was nothing, she knew, they loved better than a successful mystery knight. 

 

Two more fell to her lance by midday, when she lunched namelessly in her dull clothing. Hot food was to be had at the expense of their unendingly generous guest of honour, who’d won his first tilt. He was named against Finn Dondarrion in the first pairing after the meal: the knight’s hands trembled around chicken legs in anticipation, though she suspected the Lightning Knight might be out to curry favour more than reputation. The desert was cracked and fragile. Games of valor and reputation could only count for so much: there were much grander ones being played. There hovered a man nearby, caught between commoner and lord, his form too dominating to be enveloped by the shadows. It wasn’t only his size, though that was considerable, but rather something that rolled off of him, like the biting wind off of the sea at Cape Kraken or Widow’s Watch. He reeked of understanding, of an eerie sort of knowledge. The brown of his eyes almost seemed to accuse her of some great destruction, but under them lay pity, a warning, and something she couldn’t decipher. In her head a voice she didn’t recognize whispered a name she’d made herself forget.

Hot mutton turned to bitter steel in her mouth. She rose, panic seeping out of her gut, legs numb as they smashed the wooden table, and fled. She spat the offending hunk of meat from her mouth and stared at the grey lump of it on the ground. She listened to the turbulent punches of her own heart and the sickly heaving of her lungs without ever feeling it, and waited to be saved. A breeze travelled impossibly out of the wall behind her and ruffled her hair, wrapping her into its embrace.  _ Get up _ , it whispered into her ear.  _ It is time. Arm yourself. You know you must. The world awaits your lance _ . She shuddered, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

The prophetic man sat astride a great warhorse, facing her in her next tilt. The young Reed was garbed in greens that glowed at the edges of her tortured vision, a religious sort of resignation clinging to the set of his shoulders. He rolled them as though they bore the weight of the future.  _ Just fall _ , he seemed to be asking her at the first pass, despite the fact that he should not have recognised her in the bulk of her armor. She grit her teeth and squared her jaw, indignance burning at the back of her throat and through her nose as she swung her horse round to face him again. They charged again, sweat slicking the grip of their lances, dust rising from the hooves of their steeds. Blackblood could feel the world shifting around her, the stars hidden behind the shroud of daylight aligning to herald her. She shifted her shield, leaned forwards in the saddle. The point of her weapon drove home into the mass of chest opposing her. Lincoln Reed’s lance dipped and slipped under her shield. There was a crack like lightning; the braying of a horse; a damning thud. The Northerners wore no more armor than leather when they tilted, so there was no  _ clank _ as the prophet’s shoulder drove into the sand. Blackblood dropped the splintered mess of her lance and rode straight from the yard without looking back. The commons screamed behind her. They had no clue of the fatefulness of it all.

 

Bellamy Targaryen knocked Finn Dondarrion decisively from his seat, the pair roaring with laughter as the prince swung down and tugged the knight back to his feet only moments later. He fell in the next tilt to an upjumped Tyrell: the boy defeated when he was faced with the stag-helm of Wells Baratheon. The smallfolk spoke in hushed voices about the black heart of the Mystery Knight pitted against the Hand’s son in the final tilt of the day. They whispered that Raven Sand was sure to be named the Queen of Love and Beauty. They whispered that the Prince was there to arrange a marriage between himself and the Tyrell heir - or was it Clarke Tully? But what about Lady Sand’s cousin, the Princess of Dorne? The hedge knight heard all of this and more, but her eyes stayed glued to the dais where the Prince’s cheeks began to tinge red with the happiness of wine and Raven Sand’s eyes slid over everything with a teasing challenge ever present, the confidence of someone who knew something you didn’t. She locked eyes with the hedge knight for barely a moment without looking away. Below her, Lincoln Reed whispered a single word into the ear of Lexa Stark, who stiffened even more. Northern ice settled painfully in the center of the hedge knight’s skull, pricking resentfully at her thoughts. She swallowed a horn of watery ale and breathed fate into her lungs. The sun dipped lovingly against the mountains; the sky began to bleed.

She stood before the Prince and his guests, face shrouded by a gate of metal, the slit of her vision offering little in the way of the man beside her. She did hear him, however, when he muttered over Lord Dayne’s speech.

“I don’t want to do this - I didn’t want to enter. I want you to understand that.” He began, his voice soothing, his words damning. “But His Grace will not permit a Mystery Knight to win. And he will not permit you to walk away without being unmasked. I’m sorry.” She nodded, hoping he would see before he donned his helm, and marched to her end of the tilts the moment Lord Dayne ended his speech. The night was deadly silent, no one daring to make noise louder than a breath. Wells Baratheon spoke with his squire as Blackblood paced her horse back and forth, the smallfolk nearest buzzing, murmuring advice, reaching out to pat the charcoal coat of her destrier. There was a resounding murmur in both noise and atmosphere as the Baratheon man pulled his helm over his head, the antlers protruding into the air, proclaiming his worth, daring any to question him. The hedge knight’s elbow creaked miserably as she settled her lance at her hip. She would fall: it was obvious. The smallfolk who still screamed her name were blind.

There was little in the first pass: in a jest, she broke an antler from his helm. Ever serious, he broke his lance against her shield. Black coated wood sprayed upwards. The planks underneath were tinged with a reddish sap. She shook her arm as they rounded the tilts and faced each other once again. He traded the broken end of his lance for a new one. She spurred her horse into action once again, leaning forwards and low, lance this time targeting his shoulder. The point of his own grew steadily more menacing, and she swung her shield to guard herself. Her lance broke on his own, and the crashing power of his blow left her swaying in her seat. Her legs clenched around the saddle and she thundered forwards, relieved she had made it to passes. It wasn’t until someone screamed at her that she realised her shield was in two halves. She dropped the ruins of her lance and tore off the broken shield, a smear of blood from her forearm following it to a heap. She picked up a new lance and knew this would be her last charge.

 

It passed in a blur of hooves and chattering teeth. She fell gracefully, really, caught in the chest by the Stag’s blow, landing with a crash on her back. The sound of the commons washed over her in a rush, her breath groaning outwards and refusing to return to her chest. She closed her eyes and waited for the victor to circle in victory. He didn’t, came to a metallic stop beside her. She rose to a knee and hung her head, deaf to the sounds of Lord Dayne and the Crown Prince's proclamations of victory. The broken helm of Wells Baratheon dropped into the sand beside her. She sucked in a breath, finally, and found it gritty with sand and sour to the taste. She’d bitten the inside of her cheek at some point, and the copper of blood now filled her mouth. 

The yelling of the crowd dulled, and she could picture Bellamy Targaryen with his hands raised, smirking at his unsmiling friend. Her ears still rang, but over the clamor she heard him speak, his voice as overly-gravelled as ever. Beside her, Wells Baratheon fell to one knee. “Lord Dayne, I present you your champion: Lord Wells Baratheon of Storm End, son of the King’s Hand!” He sent forth a booming laugh, loud enough to be heard over the screaming and cheering. “Rise, Wells, and accept your dues.” Sand crunched in her ears.

“It is an honour, my Prince. My Lord, I am at your command. I thank you for these festivities and this test of strength and courage.” There was no clanking in the movement of his armor as he bowed to Lord Dayne. His voice was without the arrogance or pomp of a true champion, the hedge knight amused herself by thinking. He loses something with weapon in hand.

“You honour me, young ser. You seem as capable as your father. A true warrior, he has always been, and wise to boot.” Lord Dayne smiled. Breath rattled in the helm of the hedge knight, inevitability creeping so close it could touch her. She watched out of the corner of her eye as an out of place crown of golden Tyrell roses was handed to her opponent. He took them and started towards the dais, beelining for Clarke Tully. Lord Stark rose cautiously and shook her head.

“I would advise that you do not, my lord.” Sensing danger, the hedge knight lifted her head before the words could destroy them all.

“Ah! He moves!” Bellamy jested, eliciting a round of laughter. “Wells, if you would reveal this Mystery Knight to us all - he has been gallant and as determined as any I ever saw,” She could barely keep from laughing at that—if it weren’t for her predicament, she might have—and allowed Wells Baratheon’s fingers to worm under the metal chin of her helm. The cool of night washed over her perspiration-soaked face, and she lifted her gaze to fall on the Baratheon lordling, then onto the Targaryen’s flashing smile, waiting for it to drop.

“My Lords, Your Grace,” She nodded at each of them, a smile of her own twisting dangerously over her mouth. “I am honoured.” Raven smirked at her and nodded proudly, before noticing the haunted look on Bellamy Targaryen’s face. Her mouth dropped open, question dangling on the edge of her tongue, when the Prince’s voice drifted out in cracked incredulousness.

“O-O?” He asked, stumbling forwards. “Octavia?” The crowds heaved forwards, shrouded in a shivering shadow of possibility, of premonition; of pandemonium. Lady Sand’s expression curdled.

  
“Hello, brother.” The hedge knight spat a glob of blood and sand from her mouth and rose to her feet. “The years have done you well. I remember how your voice used to sing so sweetly and crack so embarrassingly that you invented that growl. Our Lord father, the Gods  _ bless _ him, did always love how menacing you wanted to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CAN Y'ALL! BELIEVE! SHE DID THAT!!!!
> 
> i mean i can, but still. she did! that! pls lemme know what u think bc she did that!!!!!!!!!!


	8. lexa.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lexa and bellamy play an approximation of politics; octavia laughs a little too soon; clarke learns a little history

Starfall’s mornings didn’t seem nearly quite so colorful once the crowds had receded from her walls. There grew a cold, uninviting purple-grey tinge to the sky the day before the Northern party was due to leave; the air trapped within their tents stagnant and oppressive. Lexa Stark longed for the comfort of her coat draped heavy over her shoulders and the bite of wind at the tip of her nose. _Soon,_ she promised herself. _Winterfell is a matter of leagues away._ There came the sound of someone entering the tent.  
“My lord, His Grace Prince Bellamy wishes to speak with you.” Lincoln’s serenity was assurance enough for the woman, who nodded, before sinking into a small bow as the shaggy-haired prince entered.  
“Your Grace.” She greeted, the words murmured towards the ground. Even from across the tent, she could smell the oils and spices that adorned the Targaryen’s southern skin, stronger even than on Raven Sand and Clarke Tully. The coffers of the Iron Throne had served him well, it seemed.

  
“My lord.” He replied, and Lexa stood straight again. “I’m afraid I’m here for little more than a courtesy. My father has rather… Neglected your region, and I’m not proud of that fact. I do intend to travel North, again, should he let me… Perhaps, had we not been so confined, Octavia would have resurfaced earlier.” Lexa blinked at him and bit her tongue. Southern apologies only meant so much. The North remembered, and more than anything, Lexa remembered her pain, her heartbreak, her war, conveniently ignored by the King. “The Crown has neglected you for far too long. I swear to you: that will change.”  
“Aye, your Grace. It will.” She agreed, turning away to hide the glower of ice in her face. “Forgive me, but have you not a travelling party to return to? I hear the road to King’s Landing awaits you. Or perhaps I can offer you a horn of ale?”  
“No, thank you, Lord Stark.” Something in the Prince sung of the coolness of diplomacy, quenching the blood of the dragon, the excitable fire of youth and excitement of previous days. It almost hurt, almost reminded Lexa Stark of herself and of everything she wished to protect Aden from. On the Prince, however, it fit exactly as it should have: the burden of royalty, harsh against the perks he had so long enjoyed. “I only wished to say what I have - and to thank you for your composure in the wake of certain revelations. I could almost imagine you knew long before the rest of us, if Octavia weren’t... well, Octavia. Not to mention the undying reputation of Stark honor, of course. I am certain you would have carried the information to me yourself.” Bellamy Targaryen smiled at her, before nodding. “If you’ll excuse me, I wish to find my sister before I am to leave. King’s Landing remains her home.”  
“Of course.” Lexa Stark found herself almost smiling back, a realisation more perturbing than anything else over the last weeks. “Safe travels, Your Grace.”

The Prince disappeared just as he had arrived, and Lincoln slipped into the tent behind him.  
“Do all Southerners think us honorable to the countenance of fools?” He asked, reaching immediately for her offered horn of ale. Lexa had known her bannerman long enough to know how easily he grew to thirst: she also knew that if there were one house more honorable than her own north of the Twins, it was House Reed.  
“You speak lightly. Was it not the girl’s own honor that held your tongue even from me, Lincoln?”

  
“My lord?”

  
“The greensight didn’t take you during that tilt.” Shock drew across the smooth brow of Lincoln Reed. Lexa watched as explanations bubbled to his lips, holding up a single finger before he could speak. “No need to explain, Lincoln.” She granted him a quirk of her lips and a nod. “I’d have done the same, in your shoes. But now we march towards war, whether the first battle be tomorrow or in ten summers. Your sight is our greatest asset. Anything you see, you come straight to me, even if it is my own death in your dreams.” Lincoln sobered, ducking his head in a nod. Lexa swallowed. “And you tell no one without consulting me first, alright? No one. Swear it by the Old Gods, Reed, or we might as well slit our own throats right here and now.”  
Before her, Lincoln Reed dropped to his knees and drew his dagger, dropping it to the ground. “I swear to keep this secret yours and mine only, my liege, by the Old Gods. By our bond, one that goes back further than time itself, you know I mean this.” She waited for him to rise - where the Southerners might have taken a simple oath by words to be a sufficient promise, the Starks and Reeds steeped themselves in tradition and propriety.  
“Thank you, Lincoln.”  
“Of course, my Lor-” Lincoln’s reassurance was cut off by a nearby shout breaking through the vague hum of men and horses. The tent took little more than two full strides to cross. Once there, the Stark woman had half unsheathed her sword before she realised the scene in front of her.

“All due respect, Your Grace,” spat the Princess, garbed still in her leather armor, face streaked with sweat and dirt, “But I have every right to decide where I will be going, and with whom. You are no Baelor, and I am no Rhaena. I am not your wife - in fact, I am not your anything. I will remain in the service of Lady Sand however long I see fit.” Rage boiled on both the Targaryen’s faces, and though they lacked a mother in common, the expression was something like a shadow reflected in both their features. Bellamy reached out, his hand scraping nothing but air, pain and rage holding him upright in equal measures.  
“Octavia, please.” He begged, voice a quiet storm. “Take the egg, at least. Don’t forget where you came from - who you are.” A cold and cruel chuckle bubbled through his sister, her wildness almost terrifying.  
“That egg is stone, brother. Worthless where it matters. That is all I see in it: in you, in our father, in our name. Fire and blood may still be true, but I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. I forgot the girl who fell into that lake a long, long time ago, Bellamy Targaryen. It is best you did the same.” Lexa watched on as the Princess-turned-Hedge-Knight stalked away, and as the bedraggled prince kicked dust up from the earth in frustration. Her companion found no words; nor did she. As Bellamy retreated from the city she stood in the entrance to her tent in silence, allowing all that she’d seen and heard to ferment in her mind.

Midday was drawing near by the time her peace was next interrupted: this time by the increasingly familiar face of Clarke Tully. Lexa rose from her seat in her cot as Lincoln announced the woman, stress and anticipation for the journey that awaited her already beginning to set into her bones. Somewhere in the distance, a horse whinnied.  
“My lady,” Lexa greeted, ducking her head.  
“I thought, Lexa, that we’d moved beyond such courtesies.” Clarke reminded her, smirk on her lips, before allowing herself to sober somewhat. “Your hip?”  
“Healing.” Lexa responded, assured despite the other woman’s chastising. “Thank you, for asking.” The intruder stepped further into the tent by means of answer, unspeaking. “Can I offer you anything, Clarke?” She asked, emphasizing the other woman’s name. It earned her a smile. “Wine? Tea? Spicecakes?”  
“No, no - I am lunching with Raven soon, I’d best keep my hunger growing if I wish to survive.” Lexa nodded, fetching herself ale as little more than an occupation for her hands. “So, you are heading back to Winterfell tomorrow?” Clarke asked her turned back.  
“Aye, in a fashion. We may try avoiding the Prince’s Pass, and sail from Sunspear to Oldtown - or perhaps further. Time is, of course, essential, in times like these. The Northern forces gather slowly, and I dare not mobilise them with a raven, especially after Ser O’s stunt the other day.”  
“Time is the enemy of victory.” Clarke Tully agreed, drumming her hand on one of Lexa’s bedposts. “So, you truly intend to do this with us, then? There’s little gain for you, it would seem. Some might say you’d benefit from double-crossing us, even.”

“It is not in my nature to betray an ally, Clarke.” Her voice was jagged and cold, the test little more than plain offensive to the Stark woman. “I have fought and won a war before - it may have been small, little more than a dispute to your mind, but the North is the greatest of all the Seven Kingdoms. When the Bolton’s rebelled, it was with a force of thousands, unprovoked. It took months to assemble a true army to fight them, and in that time, I sent many a raven south to King’s Landing requesting aid as the Warden of the North. I was not granted a response.” Lexa lifted her chin. “I have my reasons. I have need of more a claim than putting down a rebellion. Many people would rather see my brother in my position. I would not, and nor would he. I will not be the ruler of a summer and no more.”  
“I did not mean to question you, Lexa.” Clarke spoke softly - already, the Wolf woman knew just how adept she was with words and diplomacy. “Only to make sure you knew why you were choosing this path. I have my qualms with war, I have read enough history to know what it costs. Whether I will be able to live with myself, knowing whatever death and destruction we have already sown… Well, that will be the question I wait to answer.”

“Have you ever been in love, Clarke?”

“Come again?”

“Have you ever been in love?” Clarke Tully shook her head. Lexa took a long swig of her drink, her throat and heart aching and stinging all at once with the story she was about to tell. “I was, once. Her name was Costia, and I loved her more deeply than I thought should be possible. More deeply than I should have - it was a weakness. But I was little more than a child. The Boltons kidnapped her from inside Winterfell, from under my watch and care. It was on a note, sent to my room alongside her head, that Nia Bolton declared war on me.” Something was broken on Clarke’s face, but there was little more than a stony shadow in the grey-green eyes of Lexa Stark. “I made their men bleed, and their city burn. Without the aid of the South, I obliterated their armies. I dissolved the Houses that supported them. But from Nia, I took the only thing she cared about: her legacy. Her name is tainted. She cannot leave the Dreadfort. She watched her son Roan, the leader of her forces, die by my hand. And I took her only remaining heir as my own sister. House Bolton will die with her, slow but sure.” Lexa set down her drink, massaging the hand that had held it too tightly. “Many of my men cannot understand that that was punishment, not weakness. But I had seen enough death, and felled enough soldiers. I wanted to watch Nia suffer. I wanted to feel her loss, as I knew she had revelled in mine. The destruction of war is not in death, Clarke. It is in life.”  
Clarke Tully stood, and took Lexa’s aching hand between her own fingers, easing the tension from it without a word. Lexa clenched her jaw and looked away, not wanting to accept the touch and yet craving it. She couldn’t offend the few allies she had left. “I’m sorry,” Clarke said slowly, her voice not pitying, yet not unkind. “You know that I have lost - not in the same way, but not entirely differently, either.” Lexa withdrew her hand. “You’re wrong, though. Love - love is strength. Love is what will pull you through the other side of the war, whether you want to continue or not, and wipe your hands clean of the blood that soaks them.”

“You are a child of summer, Clarke, and winter is coming.” Silence pressed into the small space between their bodies, until Lexa turned away, pacing for no more reason than distraction. “Will you be headed to Riverrun, then, to parlay for the forces of the Riverlands?”  
“I believe that is where Raven intends to send me, yes. I know not what I will find there, however: friend or foe or both, even.”  
“If it is any confidence, Clarke, I do think you have the politics enough to turn most into a friend.” Lexa admitted. “Have you a party to ride with? I can offer you the Northmen I have camped in Kingsgrave, but I fear they may be hostile to one they know not - especially one so… Southron as yourself.” Clarke raised her eyebrows at the Stark, caught between amusement and offense.  
“So, you lot do hold judgements of us as we do of you. Runs against the nobility of your reputation.” Lexa shrugged.  
“And yours against the chivalry of the South. We are not so different you and I, Lady Clarke.”  
“What say you, then, to the suggestion that I ride with your party to Sunspear and a ship, then? It shan’t be difficult to go from Oldtown to Riverrun, especially given we may well beat the royal party back to King’s Landing, in that case.”

“If you think you can bear the company of the Lady Commander that long, then you are most welcome with us. It may distract my good cousin from irritating me the entire time, in fact. I do think she has taken something of a shining to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dang this one took me a while to churn out but THANK GOD the story is actually moving on!!!! amazing!!! war!!! politics!!! love!!! drama!!!!
> 
> this is also u know. mostly boring. so apologies for that. but there's some stuff that needed to be added. next chapter will hold a new pov (and a half) so!!! that should be v v fun and gives me a wee opportunity to try something new
> 
> lemme know what ya think pls


	9. the valonquar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aden is caught between joy and worry; clarke meets the family; the northern gang departs from dorne; a long-held secret is revealed

_He could hear the great waters roaring in the distance; he smelled the sharpness of blood, could still taste its remnants coating her mouth. It was warm here, and the smells layered into one another until they were almost indistinguishable. He could feel his sister, caught in a land that burned hotter even still; could smell not only her but the things she smelled: smoke, spice, fire, blood,_ danger _. He let out a whine, knowing it wasn’t just his sister surrounded by such but their_ pack; _the older one with two legs who smelled of ice and of iron, who stepped so heavily and glared so emptily it was hard to look at, who inched closer and closer by the minute; and the one who was another half of herself, who laughed as loud and as light as the burbling of streams, who had not yet been hardened by the harshness of winter but in whom the children and the First Men sung quietly, waiting, waiting._

_Something twitched in the underbrush. The great wolf growled, teeth bared against the sounds of terror and of flight. The air was stirring with something ancient and dangerous, something that raised the hackles along his spine. The roots sung the songs of Old Valyria, of magic gone dormant, of the Dances and the Doom. The growling grew louder, more impatient, more anxious, until-_

 

“Aden,” Something shook the boy, his head smacking loudly into the frame of his bed. “Oh, _piss_ it.” The voice cringed as his eyes opened, face scrunched in pain so sudden and sharp he didn’t even notice the bloody half-moons his nails had dug into his palms. The words made little sense to the boy, wrapped in the pelt and the world of the wolf, the sudden rush of colour and voice unintelligible to ears that still felt like pricking. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you - it’s just, you were shouting again.” Ontari explained, her voice rushed. “ _‘Sammy’_ ,” she imitated, “And then no words, just… Well, it was like growling, or something. It was weird, Aden. I could hear it from next door.” She sobered, voice softening and dropping to the sounds he thought a mouse might make, could it talk. The Stark boy didn’t respond for a few long moments, the words still sinking through his skin. “Aden?” She asked, almost broken. “You’re scaring me.”

“Hm? Oh, no, I’m fine, Ontari. Just… Just a dream.” _One that felt realer than waking up._ He swallowed away the lingering copper of blood, and grinned at the girl.

“About your dog? Do you _miss_ him?” A sparkle of mischief began to creep into her eyes, her teasing ceased only briefly by concern.

There was an itch in his fingers he somehow knew would only be cured by the hairs that ran down the middle of his partner’s spine, white as snow, thick and coarse as smallfolk’s roughspun. The boy sat up, sheets falling away from his bare chest as he leaned towards Ontari in a silent challenge. “Sammy’s a wolf. And not just any wolf, he’s a _direwolf_. You know that.”

“Yeah, and I also know you’re having nightmares because you miss your pet, _Stark_.” Aden’s eyes narrowed, a glint of competition leeching into them, his chin lifting in defiance.

“And _I_ know that you are going to regret saying that.”

 

* * *

 

 

The burning sands of Dorne suited Aden Stark as it had suited none of his bloodline before him: his skin glowing almost golden just as his hair grew ever lighter under the seemingly endless sunlight hours - a strange gift from a half-southern mother he’d never known. The North had melted away to form a child as carefree and excitable as the native Dornish children whose laughter filled the Water Gardens with life. As his nameday sped towards him without a care or word from Lexa, the anxiety that gnawed his gut was invisible. He bled red from scrapes on his knees; he was every day of his thirteen years and no more. A boy with skin the deep brown of Maester Caris’ sourleaf tea leapt over his head and splashed violently into the pool, belly first. A roar of laughter went up around the Gardens as he disappeared beneath the surface. A dark-haired girl in the shade of an orange tree rolled her eyes for only a moment before returning to her book of songs; her sister, however, laughed harder than any other, diving perfectly into the water behind the boy. The blood of Old Valyria still sang aloud in Dorne; silver hair and purple eyes speckled haphazardly between Dayne cousins and Santagars, Cerwyns and Yronwoods. There was a unity between the bare-skinned children in those Gardens, an eternal and profound sense of family Aden could only imagine was felt among armies - one that whispered _pack_ in his mind, fangs bared and growl in throat.

Ontari sat half submerged in the shallows, legs crossed and eyes closed. With another glance at the orange tree, Aden couldn’t help himself but grin madly, hoisting himself from the water and into the angry heat of the day. None payed attention to the boy as he hurried across the garden and snatched a fruit from its lowest branches; the flesh deep red and bloody as he tore it open. He chewed thoughtfully on half as he wandered back towards the girl - though now, he had picked up a spectator. Peeling the rest of the skin off the orange, he threw a wink towards Nyko Umber. To Ontari, however, he threw the dripping fruit, cackling as it hit home in the centre of her forehead. Her eyes snapped open, immediately finding him in his peals of mirth. On her face grew a curious mixture of irritation and amusement; beside her floated the smashed orange half. She raised a finger to her forehead, touching the juice stains.

“Aden Stark!” Shouted Nyko from behind her. Aden could only grin again, his body shaking with hidden laughter even Ontari couldn’t escape from as she licked away the fruit from her finger. “What exactly do you think you are doing? Surely you don’t think Prince Sinclair invited you here to throw food all over his-”

 

“Thank you, Lord Umber, but I believe I can take it from here.” It was a voice Aden half thought he’d forgotten, but when he spun to see the face of his sister, relief crackled through his stomach like lightning, his face alit with joy.

 

“Lex!” He exclaimed, hurling himself towards her, courtesies and propriety forgotten. He could feel her laughing against his cheek as her hand came down onto his sodden hair, though she made no sound. He gave himself a moment, then let go and stood back, styling himself into a little lord. “The tourney went well?”

“We’ll talk about it later. But yes, it was most enjoyable.” Lexa’s gaze fell onto her juice-streaked ward. “Aden did not hurt you too much I trust?” Ontari nodded. “Good - but we will talk about that later, too. As Lord Umber said, you two are _guests_ here. You will comport yourselfs as such.” The pair ducked their heads and mumbled agreements, cheeks burning in unison. When Aden looked back up, he noticed the figures behind his sister.

“Lady Commander,” He greeted with a nod, “Lord Reed,” His gaze shifted to the last - the one he didn’t recognise. At the remembrance he was unclothed, his cheeks burned red again, and he glared at his sister in alarm. To his simultaneous relief and anger, a look of embarrassment hid behind her eyes at the realisation.

“Lady Tully, my brother Aden Stark, and ward, Ontari Bolton.” The blonde woman suppressed a grin, curtseying to Aden and then Ontari. Lexa turned to the children. “This is Lady Clarke. She will be accompanying us on our journey, returning to Riverrun along the way.”

“It is a pleasure, my lady.” Aden chorused, studying the woman - it took mere moments for him to realise she found his nakedness a source of amusement rather than embarrassment. And with that realisation, Aden Stark decided he liked Lady Tully very much. “Will we be dining then, tonight? The sun sets late here, but it is better to eat while it is still shining and warm enough to be outside. Besides, I think it best that Ontari and I set aside a long while to prepare ourselves for such.”

“The Gardens are so lovely, Lord Stark,” Chimed in Ontari, swaggering to his side, “It would be a shame to lose their beauty - especially if you are wishing to travel soon.”

“They do not lie, my lord.” Lady Tully stepped forwards into Lexa’s line of vision, a sense of bemusement at the pair of them apparent. “The Gardens at sunset truly are a vision.”  


* * *

 

Blackness had bled deep into the sky by the time the party had finished their meal; the stars shone uncaring down on them, the eternal constant across Westeros. Aden stared up at them, struggling to remember the name of the constellation that had always reminded him of a dog. Unlike the food, the excitement of the young pair was far from ended; Ontari gaping in awe at Anya Dayne, the older woman leaning forwards and whispering something Aden couldn’t hear. Beside him sat his sister, staring at the ink-black surfaces of the abandoned pools. He knew better than to interrupt the glazed look in her eyes, so grey in the darkness they could almost be mirrors of the sky or the ground. Aden swallowed away a sigh and turned to Lincoln Reed.

“So you met them, then? The Targaryens?”

“Aye, child.” He nodded.

Aden’s head tilted, not unlike a dog’s. “And what were they like?”

“Many things. They were not evil people, but I might not call them good, neither. There is a reason they are marked with fire and blood, Aden, just as there is a reason you and your sister are the offspring of winter.” Lincoln began in his soft-gravel voice, his ever meandering tone. “I met the boy, Bellamy on many occasions, though he did not deign to speak to me often. Men of the throne see little among the Reeds. If I might have judged him well, though, I can tell you this: Princes are near always arrogant, and he is no exception.” Lincoln took on a graver tone. “He is shallow in many ways and deep in others; he would burn kingdoms to the ground for the ones he loves - but more than that, he loves greatly. He has a well-meant heart, he sees the world in ideals. But he is a child of the dragon, and a child of summer. He is no king, not yet at least.”

Aden noticed Clarke Tully watching them in interest, a small smile playing on her lips, the blue of her eyes almost sparkling as though they were stars. “And the Princess?” He pressed, all but whispering now.

“I met her but once, and we did not speak as such.”

“You _saw_ her, didn’t you?” Aden was mystified - never could he have guessed that his sister’s bannerman would hold the keys to the future of Westeros in his eyes. Lincoln’s eyes darted towards Lady Tully.

“Not now. Another time - but soon, I promise.” Lincoln looked at him in such earnest and omniscience that Aden nodded hastily. “You grow stronger by the day, boy,” He grinned, reaching out to clap a hand on his shoulder. Aden knew he wasn’t speaking of the tilts. “Taller, too. Might even outgrow _me_ , one day.”

Aden laughed. “Don’t be stupid, Lincoln.”

 

“I know her.” Clarke Tully drew not only the boy’s attention, but that of Lincoln - and, in his peripheral, Lexa, too. “Not as a princess, though. As a hedge knight.” She turned to Lord Stark. “One of your own knighted her. Odd, is that not? Unheard of in the North - or so I’m told. Regardless, Octavia came to Raven Sand and I, seeking service. Raven took her in. Some call her psychic, though I simply think she pays attention to detail. Too much, even. She told me the first day we met her that something was off with _Ser O_ , as we knew her. But the knight seemed loyal enough, to me: kind, passionate, observant, if a little vengeful. I cannot fault her on the last without faulting myself; without faulting us all, probably.” By then, all eyes were on the woman of the Rivers.

“Oh, she has fire plenty, and ever more blood. We all saw it throughout that tourney - in her eyes, when she revealed herself. But she is no Daemon Waters, no Bittersteel. She simply doesn’t want the life set out for her by her family - if my judgement is correct.” Silence fell over them again. Anya Dayne nodded, and engaged both Lincoln and Ontari in a retelling of the final tilt yet again. Aden pretended not to see the intense glares between his sister and the newcomer, waiting for Lexa to return her gaze to the lake. When she did, he leaned against her side.

“I like her.” He murmured, perplexed even in the cool night by Lexa’s ever-present furs.

“I thought you might.” She replied, the smile on her lips audible.

“She reminds me of you, you now.” Lexa hummed in response. “You don’t have to believe me, Lex, but she does. And of…”

“Yeah, Aden. Me too.” Aden swallowed, regretting ever mentioning _her_. “Get some sleep. We’re leaving at dawn.” He obeyed her, rising from his seat.

“Lexa?” He asked, worry written on his face. “Is there… Is there something _bad_ coming?”

“That’s a question for Lincoln, once we have the godswood protecting us again. Good night, Aden.”

“Night, Lex.”

 

* * *

 

The morning came with a blast of sea air - not cool enough to best the sun of the Water Gardens, but strong enough to leave the taste of salt on the lips of all six members of their band as they drove south towards Planky Town, praying to every god they knew of for a Northern-bound ship. The black cloaks Anya had foisted unto them as they left the Gardens began to boil within mere minutes of riding, though no one dared complain: they knew they could not be noticed, even if not why. Aden blinked salty sweat from his eyes and trotted onwards - he knew better than to give into his thirst, no matter how dry his throat grew nor how cracked his lips felt. It would not be more than a few hours ahorse to the port; it already felt as though it had been weeks. From beside him, Clarke Tully shot a glance of sympathy over.

 

“Dorne is an unforgiving place, Lord Stark.”

“So is the North, my lady. Winter is coming.” He replied. “And call me Aden. Lord Stark is my sister.” She nodded.

He frowned as Anya peeled away from the front of their pack and towards the back. In his hands, the reigns itched. “Gods, I am going to miss the fruits down here. Apples are so boring.” Ontari grumbled, one row ahead of him, and both he and Lady Tully laughed.

“I’ll miss the sun even more.” He bemoaned, looking up to the skies. “Snow is so _bloody_ boring.”

“Language, Aden.” Chastised Lexa, turning to glare at him.

“As if you’re not ten times worse.” He muttered - only Clarke heard him, her laughter like the rushing of waterfalls. The sound of heavy hooves started behind them, then began to fade. Lincoln was rushing away, bow raised. Anya trotted closer.

 

“We’re being followed.” She warned, hand on the hilt of her sword. “Lexa, take point. Kids, Lady Clarke; stay in front of me, okay?” Aden gulped, the bobbing in his throat painfully dry. He couldn’t even nearly guess how long Lincoln was missing for - seconds, minutes, hours even - but he knew at least that they continued to cover ground. By the time there was any sound among them again, Planky Town had appeared on the horizon. Anya cleared her throat behind them, her Ranger’s skill tuned to detecting threats. “He’s back. And he’s got company.” They halted as two horses approached: one sat by the black-clad figure of Lincoln Reed, another in what was clearly sweat-soiled finery even from a hundred yards away.

“Clarke-” Lexa muttered as they came into view, immediately moving forwards.

“It’s fine.” The woman protested, her horse whinnying uncomfortably. Lincoln held the other man’s wrists in ropes. “Wells Baratheon.” She greeted, her voice full of an icy hostility Aden could never have predicted. “What in seven hells are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.” Came the response of the unknown man. Lincoln grimaced, shaking his head. Anya looked to Lexa.

“Well, we’re all in the cowshit now, aren’t we?” She asked. “Great way to start a war, Lincoln.”

“A war won’t come until the Crown finds out.” Lexa cut across her. “Better we can delay that than he goes sending a raven from the nearest keep. We’re still ahead, Anya. Hold your tongue.”

“So it _was_ a conspiracy.” Lincoln tugged on the man’s ropes, before glaring at him.

“Don’t be clueless, Wells. If you and your father weren’t lodged firmly-” Clarke cut herself off as she spoke. “You and I have nothing to talk about.”

“Clarke,” His voice was near as warm and calming as Lincoln’s, “I did-”

  
“I know, Wells. Do you think me so stupid? I know you didn’t do it. I realised just after the tourney. There was no way you could have sent a raven to King’s Landing and had your father arrive in time. Yet, you let me believe it. You let me believe you killed my father.” Clarke lifted her chin. “It was my mother, wasn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a reasonably timed update? what am i, procrastinating? (yes. yes i am.) anyways, as always, let me know what you think, the good, the bad, the ugly - i'm afraid there's not all that /much/ in this chapter - i did love writing the wolf dreams though, so shoutout to sam for making me insert them by means of direwolf. i hope wolf-you lives up to standards!!!!


	10. the blessed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bellamy walks barefoot through the boneway, the opposite direction to the peace of his ancestors.

The Boneway whistled with anger and loneliness. The Prince’s hair hung limp, slicked to the back of his neck with sweat and a lack of washing; his horse let out a huff he found himself mirroring. Centuries ago Baelor the Blessed stood on the other side of this pass, barefoot and silver-haired, with only peace and prayer on his mind. Some pit in Bellamy’s own gut urged him to worry. Atop his horse, he prayed as he hadn’t truly done in years. In his stone heart a dragon was rising. _Octavia_ , he wondered, a prayer to the Father and the Warrior on his tongue, _what have you done?_ Behind him, a great swarm waited, buzzing, stinking, waiting. A royal party didn’t travel light - and with them had come the Stormlords, a distaste for the Northern party urging them away from the Prince’s Pass where it was rumoured they would head. Bellamy’s head ached with the teeming mass of it all, stinking of Flea Bottom, yet packed even denser and worse behaved. The sun continued to burn, though at least this way they were out of sight from prying eyes. Despite the sweat that layered his skin, his left side was cold and bare without Wells to guard it. He felt naked; vulnerable; mortal. Behind him, Finn Dondarrion guffawed at a terrible joke, and began to hum.

 _The Dornishman’s Wife_ , he remembered the song. It was strange to hear it from the lips of a lord - at court, no man would ever dream of singing such. A peasant’s fun, singing was. Singer’s might be employed, paid to keep the children happy, to keep wives in good spirits, but singing was no lord’s fancy. In the taverns, men might laugh and shout and sing, but Bellamy had never been allowed such. The Red Keep was his palace and prison - his father paranoid enough to belittle him as Baelor himself had his sisters. _Mayhaps I ought to have done the same._ Hot anger flashed in his vision at the thought. _Stop that,_ he clenched his jaw, heart pounding. _You sound like him._

“Dondarrion,” Barked Bellamy, voice cracking with thirst and with strain, “Take my boots.”

“Pardon, Your Grace?”

Bellamy tossed one shoe at the man and reached down to remove the other. “My boots. They’re your responsibility, as is my horse.” He leapt from the saddle. Hot sandstone welcomed his feet. Fire cannot kill a dragon. “See that they come to no harm.”

“I- Your Grace,” Finn’s horse came trotting to his side. “What are you doing? Surely this cannot be safe?”

“If my ancestor could walk this passage without pause, then so can I, Lord Dondarrion. Fall back, my lord, and do not disturb me unless someone important is dying. The men are yours for now. I will see you at the end of the Boneway.” With that, the young Prince began his walk, head ducked against the sun’s assault, shirt open and baring his chest.

“Wait! Bellamy!” He turned. Finn tossed something at him; it sloshed in the air and fell heavily into his grip. “Water,” He called. Next game a thin, long stick, which he snatched from the air - a spear. “Protection.”

“Support.” He replied, digging the butt into the ground. “Thank you, Dondarrion.”

“At your service.” The man replied. Bellamy dropped the waterskin into the sack that hung from his shoulder; it nestled against the gold and black egg he hadn’t snuck into Octavia’s saddlebags. _If you would help me, gods, Baelor -_ **_anyone_ ** , _now would be a good time._

Blinking sweat out of his eyes, the Prince pushed forward off of his spear and into the jaws of Dorne’s greatest weapon.

 

* * *

 

Even as the stars twinkled over the pass on the second night, watching him, laughing at his determination, Bellamy trod onwards without stop. The host vanished behind him as they made camp for the second time, yet his eyes remained brooding at the ground before his feet. A deep worry tugged at the strings of his lonely, abandoned heart, just as it always did without the presence of his only true companion, the only man he had ever called friend, the only man he trusted in the confines of his home and prison. His legs, clad in black wool, were invisible in the dark of night. The air turned to chill about him, but he did not feel it; he could not even hear the sound of his own footsteps. Some strange madness had seized him, some god’s controlling touch. Urged on by the laughing stars, he slipped a hand into his sack and spread his palm over the ancient egg. It burned, fire against his skin. He smiled then, the ridiculous magic of it all entirely possible. His throat was closed with thirst, his head bursting with desire for water. But the liquid he did have would need to wait; the Boneway still stretched onwards without end. _Soon_ , he thought, and even his lips managed to fumble themselves around the word.

Not long after, his feet began to go numb as he dragged them through the dust. Images of fire and of blood flashed before his eyes; indecipherable. He twirled his spear, sipped from his skin, and shouted a prayer to the Crone for guidance. He looked up to the stars and pulled the egg into the open air. Bellamy cradled the stone in his arms, the gold somehow glowing, the black darker even than the night itself. _It needs me_ , he thought. _It cannot live without me. This stone is a cage, this stone holds a great power captive._

“Tell me,” he croaked, before returning his gaze to the sky. His throat felt like tearing this time when he yelled, “Tell me! Show me! He needs to be free,” his eyes welled with salty tears of pain, “ _Please_.”

 

The moon laughed at him and broke open; dragons spilled forth and swum through the sky, their claws picking up the stars until the constellations he knew were no more. A sun hung and burned yellow, blue, red, purple; none could come close, none could oppose its fiery anger and might. As he watched it Bellamy felt like burning, and a woman he could not see wrapped her arms around his chest and squeezed. _There is nothing so hot as the sun, my son,_ she sung in his ear; he shuddered, spine cracking with disgust. _Even wildfire cannot compete with her - she will swallow us all, one day._ Below, a fish hung in the jaws of a wolf, the castle behind them drowning in the current of a three-pronged river. _Aye, but the water might quench all - might overrule the sun. It calls to the fish, see?_ She cackled. _But when is water not water, my son, my prince?_ A lion stared longingly at a smashed crown, blood dripping from its fangs; frogs leapt everywhere leaving trails of green behind and infront of them. Another castle burned, the dragons themselves danced together and blew flaming red stars over every scene. _Beware, Your Grace._  The woman’s grip began to loosen from his lungs. _All men must die, and we all must serve. But who?_ She laughed again, the leather of age the only thing he could hear. _There is a choice_ . His gaze drifted to a blackness from which only a rose sprung forth, its thorny tendrils sneaking around the hind leg of a great stag and pulling it backwards. _A dance is a great show, a great glory, my prince, but it will only last so long._ As her voice faded so did the stars, until all was black, and the only thing he felt was the burning scales of the stone against his abdomen.

 

* * *

 

It was days later that he was found huddled in the sparse shadow of the Boneway’s last cliff edge, shirt removed and tied around his head, spear over his crossed legs; asleep. His face and stomach were gaunt, his skin darkened by the sun and flecked with dust, hair knotted and unkempt. There were dark circles beneath the Prince’s eyes. He looked as though he could have been a peasant, some Dornish raider or slaver abandoned to the ravaging of the desert. The air smelled of the sea not far to their right - from atop the cliff Finn’s scouts had spotted a ship flying the red flag of merchants and the black of the Nights Watch below it. He’d sworn the man to silence, and sent the royal scouts Northwards, to bring back fresh food and water for their corpse-like liege. The host hovered almost a hundred feet away as Finn’s horse trotted forwards, its rider praying he hadn’t accidentally killed a Targaryen heir. As he drew near, however, the purple eyes shot open, veined red, so dark they might have been blue.

“Something’s wrong.” His voice sounded like a rockslide and the loud crack of thunder that could be heard over Dragonstone no matter the season, the angry destruction of stone by roaring seas, but dried out until it was stone smashing stone.

“What, Your Grace? Is it your head? Your stomach? I can have crackers and wine here in only-”

“No, no,” Bellamy’s tongue scraped against his cracked lips, and he drove the end of his spear into the ground, hoisting himself upwards. “Not with me. Something’s wrong with the world.”

“You need water, Bellamy.” Finn interjected, jumping from his horse, wineskin in hand. Bellamy grinned manically. He knew his wildness appeared nothing short of the madness that afflicted his bloodline, yet he was unable to stop it - his veins were throbbing, singing with magic, with ancient memories long forgotten. The Stormlord pressed a wineskin into his hands - despite himself, Bellamy drunk deep from his, the sand and dust caking his tongue and his throat washed away. He lowered it from his lips and clapped a callused hand onto Finn Dondarrion’s shoulder.

“Something is very wrong and very right with the world, Dondarrion.” He growled. “Listen. Did someone not die as dawn broke onto us yesterday?”

The other man stuttered backwards, hair blown about by some odd breeze. “Not someone. A horse - belonged to some Velaryon. Bree, I think her name is.”

Bellamy waved a hand, still smiling. “No matter. I prayed for life, you see, Finn. But the Stranger appeared to me, and told me that death must pay for life. And so I prayed for death.”

“Bellamy, you sound - you’re exhausted. You need food, and drink, and then we can talk about this, okay?”

“No.” Something croaked from inside Bellamy’s bag. “The horse was sick, anyhow. I spared it pain. A lizard was crawling up the Prince’s chest, leaving bloody claw marks in its wake. “Besides. A horse is _nothing_ , when the world has birthed a dragon.” Bellamy’s eyes flashed purple, his teeth whiter than ever, as the creature on his shoulder unfurled its wings and croaked again, louder this time, smoke furling from its nostrils.

Finn stumbled yet again, falling over a rock and landing on his knees. “ _Seven bloody hells._ ” He whispered. “I’m as mad as you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10 chapters my friends!!!! woo!!!! i'm stoked that this happened to be the tenth bc like, i didn't even realise until now lol
> 
> skughdg okay so i'm very ??? about characterising bellamy so literally feel free to tear me to shreds if you feel like he's off? i had a vastly different plan for this chapter than the way it turned out so it's shorter because of that (and bc i'm Not Good at writing bell so). but other than that i'm pretty pumped to be putting this out bc i looooove dream(ish) sequences and sorta prophecies so like let me know what you think please bc im very ?!???!!!?!!?!!! about this chapter!!!! ALSO!!!! D R A G O N S


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